


Lost Boys

by gazastripping, jeanjosten



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Inspired by Fight Club, Kickboxing, M/M, Mixed Martial Arts, POV Alternating, POV First Person, War Veteran Levi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-08-10 11:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20134828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gazastripping/pseuds/gazastripping, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanjosten/pseuds/jeanjosten
Summary: They all come from the slums around here. The underground ring operates and shifts in the manners of an authoritarian wolf pack. The blood you lose you rarely get back. Stare and you have challenged. Bite and you have overthrown the other dog. People don't come down to root for you—they come to see the violence.This is the new sport.Eren is a boy who finds solace in rage. Levi is a PTSD-ridden war pig with a past that keeps him up at night. They are connected through the intoxicating sense of belonging. Of humiliating importance.Of not knowing whether you’ll come home that night.





	1. The New Era

**Author's Note:**

> resurrected an old roleplay between me and my friend gab. i have a deep fondness for this concept. i've been in the kickboxing scene since i was twelve. several injuries have recently kept me from it, but i went to my first practice in months last week, and it was so LIBERATING (!!!). funny to edit this, because so much has changed, but let's enjoy the fact that people are capable of growing and learning :-) 
> 
> this jumps from POV to POV!
> 
> find me as [@gazastripping](https://gazastripping.tumblr.com) on tumblr! here is also the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1UTX7AEIz4vkjOmey16ugx?si=zz6hQpPxTOizH75GymTyfQ).

** EREN **

I keep tonguing my left cheek to ease the pain. It’s very distracting to lick at the soft tissue.

“You look like you're giving a BJ,” Jean says.

“Well—damn, sorry, you socked me in the cheek!” I growl. “I told you: no face. It’s too obvious. My ribcage is fine, but the teeth I wanna keep ‘cuz they’re pretty like that.”

“Puss.”

Jean’s the sole reason behind my monstrous appearance; my hair’s all messed up, the collar of my t-shirt ripped so far that it’s almost hanging down my shoulder, and the few buttons of my flannel gone in the sewer. But I find an unbearable sense of satisfaction to see crusty blood around Jean’s left nostril—or maybe to know that his deviated septum won’t let his nose _not _bleed for days now.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t cuff you in the face.”

“Fine.” He raises his hands. In the left he’s holding a clove. “Round two, baby.”

“Here?”

“Wherever.”

It’s silent out back. Suitable for our solitary cigarette and lunch breaks, even though the place smells like car fumes, wet carton, and sometimes the distinctive aroma of a juicy Sloppy Joe. The brick walls of the abandoned nightclub are cracked and the bricks have changed shades of orange over the years. Black soot patches higher up; handmade foil explosives.

Only Jean and I at the moment. His company is soothing if he’s acting out alright. But he’s a fragile thing. Hard to stay sane around the guy; and I’m just the same. Hormonal, crazy stressed over factually everything, but simultaneously paying no mind to it.

“How are we feeling about that last class?”

I look up. Jean’s talking to the burning cherry of his cigarette, but I know he’s referring to me. “...we should go.”

“But our days are oh, so short, oh, dear Eren.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to get that nose cleaned up.”

“Yeah. Exactly. ” Jean jumps off the ledge of the garbage container. Then, dusts off his thighs. “I’m cutting class. See you later.”

We shake hands. I offer a smile and let him go home.

* * *

Feels like I’ve been alive forever, but it’s only been seventeen years. The death metro sure is slow for a metro. I’m anxious about being this close to…being a grownup. It had never exactly excited me in the first place.

I manage to force through to spring break, pull the last few awful grades and incarnate another bruise over my collarbone—thanks to having close to no reflex. A few people wish me a happy birthday, but it’s probably thanks to _Facebook, _because, facing the issue, even I barely remember how old I am and what day it is. I care so little about this event that I could drop dead thinking about it.

At school Jean smooches me hard on the bruised cheek that was just beginning to heal and wishes me the _happiest _birthday due to his extremist ways of loving. He asks if I want to do something, like get high or spar, which does not deviate much from what we do every day, which is, yes, get high and spar. I say I’ll think about it, but I won’t. And I didn’t. And now I’m home alone, in front of the TV, sprawled out on the couch with a can of Sprite in hand and a finished plate of spaghetti poking at my pulsating ribs—unceremoniously shirtless and very, very tired, I feel like the best birthday boy of the year.

I’m watching the only wrestling channel that mom hasn’t gotten off cable, but the stuff on TV has never been the real deal. It’s more authentic on the Internet. But, because I’m too downbeat for browsing, I just lie on the couch and burp from time to time, picking at old scabs from my fingers and knuckles.

Jean and I have become involved in our own personal Fight Club; we’re in on it to the tips of our ears. It started out as wrestling for fun, and then slowly became more aggressive—to the point blood was drawn. In fact it afflicted us so hard we figured we might as well try and learn self-defense, and gradually master one martial art or another. And thing is, we’re way too fucking poor to pay for government-regulated classes full of soyboys whose families come to each practice and make sure they stay safe, and keep their gear clean, and whatever. Those people never use a self-defense move in their life after class.

Thankfully violence isn’t exactly the talent-based trait, so all we know is all we’ve see on video and read on blogs. The keyword, I would say, is “self-trained”. “Self-made”, like some entrepreneurs. We’re a pair of dazzling amateurs who repetitively kick each other in the wrong bits of the body. This usually results in light kidney pain, which might have been internal bleeding, now that I think of it, but never kills us, and being short of breath for a brief amount of time due to the windpipe kicks Jean loves has become my norm. That’s why I’m all scabbed and tattered. Oh, the price of being young. It’s the year of the reckless, or whatever that one article I read was.

Screaming and fighting for no palpable reason has so far been the best remedy. It repels the negative energy I suck up at home with a tired single mom, makes me forget about the problems at school, lets me wind down, liberates. Even the cool kids get bullied sometimes—except I’m not one of them. That doesn’t leave me out of the whole bullying part. I get bullied like there’s no tomorrow. I don’t know how these people pick out their targets, and why they are given such a platform in the first place. It’s just a fucking game of fortune. It’s either “yeah, cool” or “no, not at all”. You don’t choose your fate; some asshole from senior year does.

I stretch my back, flex the shoulders and crack my knuckles. In deep silence I really sound like a symphony; so much in my body is popping and cracking all at once that it’s almost harmonic.

I pull mom’s plaid blanket over my upper body and head to hide the bruises and avoid being bothered by the light when she gets home. I have three hours to sleep until Jean comes knocking to get me out my apartment. No idea what he’s up to tonight. I really hope it’s more than just getting high and sparring—though I wouldn't even mind.

* * *

“So the blanket dropped.”

“Well, what’d she say?”

“She expects the world from me, but that’s just because of her boyfriend issues and rent. She’s upset I don’t have a safer hobby, like painting. But I didn’t say anything to her. She’s going easy on me because it’s my birthday.”

“Hey, your mom throwing a fit isn’t the end of the world. Look at me. I live with my _cousin_.” Jean throws the cigarette away. “Anyway, you’re gonna love this place. The pass was pretty tough to get, so I expect, like, a kiss. Mouth or ass, doesn’t matter.”

I pretend to throw up.

I’ve been to this part of town before. I knew it can’t be the circus or the movies; he’s got no tickets, and, let’s be real—no cash either. So I say strip club or some underground rap event.

I had promised to my mom that Jean and I wouldn’t do this whole “boxing crap”, and that promise was made two months ago—so go figure. I’d been doing excellent for two months, and now _this_. So I dragged my sore ass over to my room, barricaded the door and threw myself on the bed. Woke up an hour later because Jean was throwing tiny rocks at my window. He’s lucky I live on the second floor, otherwise I’d ram myself out the window and probably just murder the guy.

Now we’re both out in the cold night of March, heading towards the only animate building on the street—apparently, a tennis equipment store called Mason’s Rackets.

“You’re buying me a tennis racket for my birthday?” I choke out. “I can’t even play tennis.”

Jean looks frustrated. “Dear lord, no,” he then says. “What the hell. Does it really look like I have the money for a tennis racket? Those things go too hard on the market.”

I follow him around the store. It smells like cat piss. Worst part is not knowing _what _smells like cat piss; Jean or the place. He pushes past a wooden board covering a gap between the store and another building, lower in height, which I assume to be a garage. I go after him. My back brushes past the façade; no doubt my clothes are chalky now.

This small passage leads us to a trashed backyard, tightly confined from all four sides. It holds an old, spongy sofa, and as much as the streetlight shines upon us, a rusty pair of doors and white window frames with paint peeling off of them. What comes to mind first is how great this place could be for sparring. Lots of room, and the grass is so soft for being in the middle of the city.

I give Jean a puzzled look when he takes his hood off.

“Listen,” he whispers.

I hold my breath. Can’t really say I hear anything, asides from the car rumble a few streets away. But as the buzz of the night slowly gets to my ears, I feel that there is a repetitive bass tremble coming from right beneath us.

Jean beams and tilts his head towards the garage. “Let’s get inside.”

“Is this a show? You are keeping me at _bay, _dude.”

He ruffles his hair, zips the hoodie down and walks up to the brown, ridged up-and-over door. I notice it has dents and spray paint on it, but nothing over-the-top that’d give it away for being an underground punk community bunker.

Jean knocks five times.

“Name?” Someone calls from inside.

“Jean.”

“Not listed.”

“I’m with Steel Bear. Running late.” Jean bites his thumb as he looks at me. “I’ve got nothing on me. Fine—cloves. And about seven bucks.”

I feel myself lose ground. I swear, if it’s wrestling… Reiner, the Steel Bear, is a locally known wrestler, youngest on his team, but an official prep guy and can’t afford underground affairs like this. Obviously he still frequents our gatherings and shows us how to grapple better, but never participates.

I’ve only seen underground fighters in movies. This is going to be the real underground; and that is a lot for the small heart that I have.

The door’s pulled up by a skinny dude named Morris—at least that’s what his nametag spells out. He has a crew cut and a bunch of piercings. Once he sees that there’s two of us, he hesitates between keeping the door up and closing it again.

“Didn’t say there’s two of you,” Morris growls. “Well, spilt milk. Which one is the Jean?”

The culprit lifts a lazy hand.

“You ought to know about the future dates, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jean says. “I’m silent. Word on it.”

Morris nods. “Good lord, you’re so new. Get in. I’ve got to lock the place. Take the staircase on the left, it leads straight to B exit.” Then, having peeked at me, he lifts his brows. “You’ll steam out in that sweater, buddy. We don’t fuck with air conditioning.”

Figures why Jean is already in his tank top. I pull my sweatshirt off as I catch up with him, leaving Morris behind. Morris looks like he’s on heroin, or at least that he has been very recently. His hands were shaking. I don't know why I can point out an addict in the crowd. It must be my abuse of documentaries.

The “staircase” we take is just a bunch of wobbly concrete slabs. I feel like I’d just discovered my closeted and now suffocating claustrophobia. Stepping down physically feels hard because of the heat and smell that is seeping through the oriental strand board strips; they seem to be working as the walls of this place.

I feel sweat layer on my face and the music beats so rapidly it interferes with the beats of my heart. “I still hope it’s not a strip club,” I manage to murmur. “I’ve got nothing on me.”

“Don’t think I’d take you to a strip club with that sexual compass. In either case, this wouldn’t be your everyday bourgeois strip club visit, you trust me good on this.”

Jean pushes open another lacquered door, vibrating from the intense beat on the other side. The door reveals an enormous underground space with bright, skinny lights that barely allow the room to be called dimly lit; to outweigh that, there are lamps hanging from the wired ceiling, seemingly in a constant swindle motion. I notice countless flags, signs, posters covering the four walls that pretty successfully hold together a competition ring and at least three hundred people, not to mention the rest scattered around the other exits; knowing that Jean and I are at the B door.

People are smoking. The air is heavy. It gets hard to breathe, but in an exciting, adrenaline-filling way. The music is rhythmical, but hard to adjust to at a heart rate like this. It smells like gasoline, like oil, like burnt wood; I see girls in ripped fishnets, miraculously young-looking boys wearing tank tops, swinging their untrained arms that have still yet to bulk out, bruised, kissing teenagers clenching beer bottles and each others’ clothes, men in suits that seem to have come down straight after their 9-5 jobs, women that look like they have given up… It wouldn’t feel as right if I didn’t have Jean pressed tight against my body as we sneak through the masses, closer to the ring.

“What the fuck is this place?” I yell loud enough for him to hear me over the noise. “Some kind of a legitimate Fight Club? You’re not taking me to the ring to fight, are you?”

“No,” he says over his shoulder. “This is unsanctioned street fighting with no-holds-barred combat. The guys you see here are mostly marines, some dudes from the navy, office-wrecked daddies and the lost generation—like us.”

“This can’t be legal.”

“Yes, it’s not.” Jean stops a few people away from the ring itself. “That’s why it’s so secluded. This basement used to belong to a butcher. It’s sound-proofed so the neighbors don’t hear the pigs squeal.”

I look all around us, meeting stares I immediately avoid. The place holds a rusty, sweaty stench that presses down on my shoulders, but also spikes up the adrenaline, making me want to jump around and act a little psychotic; maybe even climb up that ring and bust someone’s face in backwards.

“Reiner is not actually here tonight,” Jean resumes, “but his ass is the big authority down here. This underground thing has a delicate system. Might not seem so, but it does.”

“Why am I out of loop on this whole thing?”

“Because I only found out last Saturday and didn’t want to spoil the birthday surprise. Tonight’s event is grand, it’s not for, you know, us, rookies, the green gen.”

“Grand?”

“It’s the best of the best here tonight,” he ceremoniously says. “The very top of the barrel. This is probably very historical and shit.”

“What's the bottom of the barrel? Wait, is this what we—“

“Too many questions. My head’s already spinning, god, there is _no _air.” Jean wipes his forehead. “Yes, there’s the bottom, and we’re _at _the bottom, probably the lowest there is. Nothing here is scripted. This isn’t fake MMA shit, there are no stunts and the guys don’t have doubles. It’s a pit of dogs gathered to watch other dogs rip each other apart. It’s the essence of human nature. It’s the ex-military on ring, possessed by Krieg flashbacks, and—“

Some guy elbows me in the stomach on his way closer to the ring. I notice a shift in the crowd—if at first it had seemed scattered, it doesn’t anymore. The immobilizing way people surround the ring locks me a few feet away from Jean, forcing me to watch the stage-like jut. Drenched in hot bulb light, I gape at the black referee. He holds both his hands straight up in an attempt to silence the crowd, but it only makes people scream louder. How is this old steakhouse still holding itself in one piece?

“Watch it, it’s just the quarter-final!” I hear Jean scream. “It gets bloodier each fight! You’ll _love _it, dude!”

“People die here, don’t they?” I scream at Jean, but he doesn’t hear me.

I’ve never wanted anything more than being up there, on the ring, with no possible way of gaining fame or recognition in the real world. This is street credit. People who know will only bow their heads out in the sunlight. Here, I’d let white-collar divorced fathers ram my kidneys out anytime they wanted. I’d melt underneath the spotlights, the swinging lights, I’d have real people look at me, scream at me, pull at my clothes and shove me around.

I’d let myself get ripped apart just to feel the thrill of life. I want to remember what being alive means_._

I’ll step up that ring one day. Even if I lose the fight, even if I die, I’ll have died with just as little importance as I came into the world.

We are nothing in the big scheme.

We don’t matter. So nothing I do matters.

I join the baying crowd, watching two similar weight class fighters go head-to-head in the ring, and think that this must surely be my happiest of birthdays.

** LEVI **

It’s illegal to fight as an ex-military. No one has stated this in the preambles, but that is a fair consensus. We are not supposed to use our government-fed knowledge of lethal maneuvers in front of the general public. _This time, __I won’t go back _is what I’ve sworn on, but I’ve got the ghost limb problem, and knowing what’s on the menu for tonight is not making my day any brighter.

It stopped feeling the same when people began building artificial hype around it, making it about something else other than letting yourself go. It is now a cool pastime. It’s a bet. It’s a kink. Fuck forbid it’s something deep or beautiful; there’s no beauty in violence. It’s not art. It’s violence. These are not synonyms.

Patience. Discipline. Humility. The many things an everyday fighter lacks, things that are inevitably necessary in order to not only fight, but win. And there’s your slice of luck: a risky 50/50 bet you place on the table with life and death. Placing your bet means you’ve already lost. You don’t know this until you’re dead. You lose in the grand game, even after the small victories accumulated over the years.

“Enough for today.” The class looks up at me with a mite of bitterness. Most of them don’t have a home to go back to. “Tomorrow, 7 AM sharp. We’ll do three free kick forms. Make sure you wear shorts.”

I turn away and enter my tight office. The familiar jingle of gear being stacked cues. That’s the rule here I don’t have to enforce upon anyone: you take something, you put it back. Theft has been attempted and did not end well. If you could learn to fight with concrete and the will of the sun, it would be too easy. Some people aren’t thankful for the little things in life. Free gear is one of the little things.

I get called before I can reach my chair. I hold the sigh.

“Coach” is what they call me, when the only thing I’ve coached them into is staying alive. I provide the equipment and pray they don’t kill themselves in the process of learning. The problem usually lies in the overuse of it: some learn to defend themselves, others learn to cause the same dismal. I’m not responsible for their ultimate decisions; that’s what I tell myself as I watch another kid come back in with a black eye.

“This big thing coming up, you’re gonna be in it?” The kid asks.

I lean against the doorframe and drink my cold coffee.

He’s around twenty. Innocent as a lamb, deprived of any judgment. Completely naive mug. Has been coming in recently and is not exactly the best at coordinating his movements. But he tries, and I respect that.

“Already got asked a few times.” No other answer to give than this. I haven’t made my mind up yet. Even the suicide club member that I am, I can’t take on a decision like this in under a minute. I’m not particularly fond of the risk of every fight being my last. I’d rather spend my last days coaching kids who adore me than losing the opportunity to do so in front of people who have only heard my name on the street.

“And?”

“I’ve got to say, I don’t think I have it in me anymore.”

“If I can permit myself to say it, sir, you do.” He smiles. “We were wondering—the crew and I—we were thinking we’d just about kill to see you in action.”

Of course they would. I don’t move much at my gym. I drift around and barely offer demonstrations. Practice comes early in the morning before I even lift the garage door of this warehouse, when there’s no one to watch or cheer, or influence the way that I hold my body and exert my strength. Strangely enough, I don’t like to be seen when I fight, which is weird for someone who’s known among the underground commune for climbing up the ring and giving out free samples in front of hundreds.

“You’ll get to see me in action if that gear out there isn’t stacked up.”

He laughs and disappears back into the gym.

I sit in my chair, let my head drop to my palm and finally sigh.

I’m tired. Battling for money I didn’t quite think I would need, teaching teenagers how to fight when they don’t know where else to direct their anger, seeing these very same kids get hurt worse than they’d hoped—the whole of it doesn’t make my heart lighter. I’m their coach. I’d help them if I could, but sadly, I can’t.

The event spoken of all around our community is the reunion of top underground names. Mine is part of it. I don’t exactly like admitting it, but mine makes too big of a part.

The owner of the butcher’s basement got it for cheap because they couldn’t wash the blood out of cement and it smelled like death all year round. For the past decade, he had dedicated himself to organizing illegal fights in the strange safety of his own system. Hired security crews, doormen, limited entrees and a very popular frequentation consisting of veteran boxers, ex-military men and amateurs who know how to rub the right elbow. Alcohol, cigarettes and marijuana, but nothing else. Strict rules—used to be different back in my prime. Too many kids started dropping cold, so something had to be done. The community had to be preserved.

I’m bitter about it, but I used to live for it. I still do. This part of me just won’t die.

Hard to forget the adrenalin spike I’d get from my name being sung through the speakers, only to be well received with screams and respect. The respect, here, you gain it by knocking people out. It’s brutal. It’s raw. It’s fair.

Underground fighters rarely come from a good background. The ones who’ve got the better end of the stick don’t bother getting their hands dirty. We are all pathetic, miserable and poor, inherently incapable or no longer capable of making a proper living. Most of the fights are a matter of money. Most participants don’t see the color of it.

We are people who can’t afford to compete clean and official, and _real_. But what we do is the true real. There are no cameras, no women strutting all round to attract the desperate, no age group, no rank, no skillset, not even seats to sit—everyone is on the same level, given the same opportunities. It’s the core of anger and there is no artifice. We do it raw.

I glance at the dusty screen of my computer and then look over all the papers spread across my desk. None of this means anything to me.

I let my fingertips ghost over the ruined knuckles of my right hand as the boys out in the hall throw our punching bags away in the storage room.

I do miss the smell of anxiety in the air, and music bouncing off the walls, wild and belligerent screams echoing all around. I miss the satisfaction of breathing again at the end of a fight.

The intoxicating sense of belonging. Of importance. Of not knowing whether you’ll come home that night.

* * *

Fights like this are organized by people who have the money; with enough cash, you get to spread a secret without attaining the wrong ear. It’s well fucking done—I’ve never seen any of these go wrong, although they also rarely end well. Most kids who happen to get a free pass straight to this sweaty hell are already high before they get to the doorman, and the rest usually get drunk on the spot.

As a known fighter, I wouldn’t recommend challenging your body before jumping on the ring. I cannot emphasize this enough. And if you have the opportunity not to participate at all, take it. Whatever your big teenage dreams have rounded up to be, this won’t get you anywhere, and there is no money at the end of the stick. Nothing to gain but a vivid, ephemeral _but _temporary ego boost—or, the other way round, a reputation destroyed for longer than hoped. But for the people who have nothing to lose, this is our therapy. Going on the ring just feels good. It’s a brutal shot of adrenaline in my blood. It is, admittedly, quite pleasant to feel alive again. The hardest thing of all this mess is the discipline. To get, to keep, to understand. Took me years. And each time I come back to the ring, I’m worried I’ve lost it.

I have no talent, I’m not smart enough to bring value to the world, and all the respect I’ve earned is by breaking bones and cutting skin. I did this while serving and I’m doing this now. Erwin could’ve become a good man, a better one than he already is. I, on the contrary, could hardly become anything other than worse.

Someone knocks on the door and opens it before I can give an answer. Morris.

“Your turn, baby boy.”

“Morris—thin ice.”

“Still know where to go?”

I almost smile. Of course I do. I’ve walked down this corridor too many times for my age, my status as a humbled ex-military with no bank account and no home to call my own but an empty gym and a holed mattress.

I enter like a gladiator would enter an arena. The second I pass the corner, I’m welcomed through intense clapping and bodies pressing closer to better apprehend. People here don’t come to root for someone, they come to see a nice show. The charge of a debutant is brutal to watch; the charge of a long-timer can almost be _heard_. The blood you lose on this ring you rarely get back, and once you’re on the ground, it’s over. There’s the tap out, and there’s the countdown, but people don’t give a fuck about your second chances. The fight is over when you show that you are weak.

We entertain the thirst for blood. I take the hits and I give the hits to give people something to talk about in the crowded corridors of a high school, the tiny beehive offices of a capitalist corporation during their fifth improvised coffee break of the day. No photos allowed. There can only be rumors. What you see here you never forget.

Following the track the bodyguard is fighting for me, I wipe the sweat off my forehead and into my hair. Wandering hands try to grab me, but I push them away by rolling my shoulders—and then the ropes are right up in my face, and I can clearly say now that I’ve missed their roughness in my palm.

I push myself up on the ring. When I straighten, visible to the greed surrounding the platform, the screams get louder.

Another man climbs on stage, not much taller than me. I look him down as he smirks.

I can’t tell if the music has been cut, or if the screams have drowned it by now, but I can tell what’s wrong with the guy. He is confident, reeks of arrogance and has physical likes to offer. He doesn’t look like one to lose, but he has no choice. Those who get on the ring and offer cockiness are one of either: a fighter who has won too many times, or a fighter who hasn’t lost yet. Not necessarily a fighter who has fought a lot. Though since he is here tonight, he is a supposed legend, so he must know this.

He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders. Look down on me; I understand. I’m small.

But I’m faster. You won’t believe how important a quarter-second can be in a situation like this.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Ares,” he calls out as he raises his chin.

“Awfully happy to see me, aren’t you?” I have no memory of fighting him.

“Four hundred people happy to see you.” Four hundred isn’t much, look around: they’re all desperate to be part of this. “How’s retirement?”

“Splendid.” I pop my mouth brace in. This means, shut up.

He is trying to unsettle the opponent before the fight has even began. Fair. In the underground scene, there isn’t much to forbid. Rules here barely state to leave the eyes and genitals alone—but since the rookies often ignore timely rules, tapping is the only guideline to be followed. A tap is sacred; tapping in time can be the sole reason you’re alive. Some don’t tap at all, out of pride or naivety, thinking a victory is still attainable. Those people are not here today.

They won’t be here ever again.

“And…begin!” shouts the referee, or whoever thinks they have the thing under control. The referee’s last word lingers, floats above us and mingles into the obnoxious sound, becoming part of the unintelligible litany that is being chanted.

We aren’t the first to fight. I spot smeared blood on the soft flooring drying up.

When the signal’s out, there’s no turning back. If you don’t act upon your natural instinct to survive, you die. You hesitate, you die. You blink, you die. On this ring, it’s survival of the fittest.

I’m almost sad to dodge his first punch. He carelessly throws it my way, thinking the strength of it would do the work—and indeed, the impact, if it had existed, would have cost me a lot. I bend to the side. He loses his balance as a result. Mistake. _You die._

I jump to the side, refusing to offer him my back, and raise my fists before my face, fingertips going white from the pressure of my knuckle banding. “Come on!” I throw his way. “You’re not fucking memorable, so give me something to think about!”

He growls, disgruntled. I smile and shuffle on my feet, as cocky as I can be. There’s nothing worse than a happy rival.

His face screams, _shut that charming thing up_. It says, _you’re gonna taste that fucking fist_. It says, _baby, I’m gonna blow your skull so hard your mom is gonna feel it_.

From where she is, my mom won’t feel much.

Disappointed by his first setback and disgusted by the crowd’s excitement going my way, he becomes careful. We both shuffle around each other, eyes steady, unblinking, refusing to give the other a fine opportunity.

_This is fucking boring, _I think as he tries to throw another punch my way—but this one takes me by surprise. His fist hits my forearm. It stings and shoots hot through my entire body.

“Memorable enough?” He asks.

No. This is nothing. _You die._

I jump to the right. Too sure that the same trick would work it’s charm, his right fist cuts through the air. I block it with my forearm again, charging a light hit to his face, and he doesn’t have the opportunity to dodge it.

_God_, the frustration on his face—it gives me an erection.

I possess something he doesn’t: patience. His ego won’t leave this room intact. I smile, clacking my mouth guard at him.

Figures straight punches won’t do much—so I go for the nicer shit. He aims for the legs, which he has noticed to be my stronger suit, and I plunge towards his abdomen, palms facing downwards. We collide. He digs into my shoulder due to our height difference, ankles breaking up mine with a swift move. I almost fall, but my trained balance saves it.

I spit out my mouth guard. Intrigued and not very clever, his eyes follow the plastic. I lash out for his left cheek, offering the best overhand punch I have in me as I’d gained power with the rotation of my hips and shoulders. Front foot tucked, hips turned, right heel pushing me closer—I strike. He trips and stumbles backwards, bouncing off the ring’s ropes.

A back fist hits the temple. I wouldn’t be able to do much damage if I hadn’t aimed for the cheek first. I lunge towards him, dodge his messy defense, whip around, turning on my heel for speed, and thrash his face from the side. While he blindly reaches out to grab me, I yank the closest arm he offers, and pull, hard. His weight is his advantage, but it’s also his weakness.

His feet slip. With my momentum, I manage to drag him to the ground with me, swiftly landing on his stomach to dig my elbow in and imprison his neck with my left arm. His legs can’t reach me from here, and if his fists can, there is no strength in them—because gravity. Sir Isaac Newton, I bow to you.

I cage his head with my other arm. He tries to propel himself upwards with his legs. I hold on, unmoving. My feet are planted on the bloody ground at sufficient angles, merging themselves into the hard surface to keep him pinned down.

His hands grab at my shoulders, thumbs digging in—I wince, throwing my neck to the side as the pain reaches my bones, my nervous system goes rigid, and I want to choke him to death.

Last wave of survival instinct: he tries to get up again, falls to the ground, me with him, my elbow digging hard into his ribcage.

He taps on my back. There is no doubt: he is tapping. Swiftly, repeatedly crashing his palm onto my backbone.

He is giving up. I win.

I live.

_You die._

The crowd cheers. I hadn’t heard it during the fight. I was too focused to notice. My ears sense every shout, every belt, and I close my eyes as I search for my lost breath.

This is the best part: being able to breathe again. Fights in my history have never been lengthy, especially with a skilled opponent. The good ones rarely beat around the bush. A beginner and a professional will go twenty seconds before the rookie taps out. Two amateurs: long and messy. I like to be efficient. I like not wasting my time.

I let him go. He stays on the ground for a second or two, likely wishing to sink into the ground. I offer a hand so he can get up. Guy blatantly ignores it. A part of the crowd laughs—which is only fair. Until you grow to live with your defeat, there is no ladder you can climb to be the Top Dog.

I smirk and wipe the rolling sweat off my forehead. I feel drops of it running down my bare abdomen, my sore back he had clawed during the chokehold, and the back of my knees.

I didn’t die.

I won.

** EREN **

I shake all the shyness of being the big stranger within the first fifteen minutes. Instead of just watching ongoing fights with a fiery amount of interest, I join a group of blond Irish boys betting twenty bucks on each match; whoever loses twice in a row pays up double the next bet. I bump my ass up to $160. This is more money I’ve held in my life. I’ve visibly angered the Irish boys—it seems that weren’t expecting such expenses shortly before the referee announces the end of the seventh round.

Thanks to the hours spent in front of my computer, I face no problem deciphering veteran techniques—especially post-Vietnam marines. These guys are fucking insane. The Navy SEALs are much easier to tell apart—they’re everything that’s left after that big dishing over at Mother Base. The way to tell apart a SEAL is to watch if he defends the head or the stomach. If it’s the head, he’s in the Navy Force—or has been.

The most important part is the footwork and defense tactic. These give away a lot about the fighters. Several forms of CQC and CQB mixed up with basic wrestling and rather weakly amped boxing moves mean the meaty redhead with a cross tattoo has been an excruciatingly bad marine who took a path down the police way. He gets mutilated on his first thirty seconds because he cannot put up a block—I mean, asides from the twisted forearm move that probably got two of his bones jutted to the opposite direction, the guy’s been doing his homework.

I know I’d probably do an awful job being on the ring myself, but as a vivid MMA lover and kickboxing fanatic, I can’t even keep my paws in the pockets of my jeans.

The seventh knockout is a stocky, limping Filipino named JC; he goes out with a dislocated knee, three chipped front teeth and bloody scene. His opponent—a big, fat, blond after the name Jonathan—goes out on the next round. His loss is way worse: announced three fractured ribs and a crooked jaw. Two guys from the crowd roll him off the ring to spare both the embarrassment and bloodshed.

I also see more brutal and professional maneuvers I could swear I’m seeing for the first time. For example, this veiny, tan boy, I’d say barely in his twenties, maybe even younger, lands a lowered roundhouse kick, and it messes his opponent’s (short black bear with cornrows) ear up. Good tactic: drop one of the senses. The guy tries several methods of cuffing the ankle, but the kid’s footwork is fucking sacred. Bear later lands with a loud clap and a bleeding ear canal.

What further fucks the guy over is the following round’s kick in the gut, instantly overlapped by a heel to his upper back. This combo gets him on the ground, where he then receives a dirty kick at the ribs. The fissure and pain combined make him piss his pants. The referee calls for a fifteen minute break.

I watch an old janitor lazily mop up the mess on the ring. He misses many so pools of blood, and I assume it’s to frighten the lineup.

The first seven fights leave me so brutally mindfucked I have to go check up on Jean and hear his opinion on the ranking of all seven knockouts. I find my boy leaning over a water fountain with bloodshot eyes and a burning cigar between his thumb and index.

“D’you watch any of those?” I ask, pointing a weak finger over my back. “Dude, the last few were crazy. Blond fudge went out full-blown Crooked Man.”

“I saw that, and then I got sick. This is seriously fucked up.” Jean wipes at his mouth and straightens up, leaning on me. “Where were you? I lost you.”

“I was on the side with the benches.”

“Oh—you got to see the good action.”

“Wanna see what I got?” I ask.

“Tamara’s panties? They sell those off on eBay sometimes.”

I shove my hand in my back pocket, fishing out the crumpled money I’d won betting. Jean’s eyes widen at the first twenty-dollar bill, and he looks just about to orgasm with the following.

“Did you _bet?” _He asks, weakly puffing the fat cigar. “Well, yeah, it makes sense, you have the eye. It's kinda risky, though; don’t mess with the wrong people."

“I'm a cockroach," I grunt.

“That you are." He ruffles my hair, arm still hooked around my neck.

I wince. “Get off, you’re hot as hell.”

Jean gleefully takes another drag from the cigar and offers it to me. “This is good fucking stuff. Some kind of rare Jamaican blend. Try it.”

My nose involuntarily wrinkles. “There's no air. I'm gonna throw up."

“Oh—_dude._ You know who goes up in a few?”

“Who?”

“Ares.”

He says the name with such grace I realize I’ve _got _to have a bad case of being out of the circuit. The humility with which Jean presented his title, said Ares could be the founder of this place, or some elder fighter.

I hold a nervous breath, afraid to show that I have no clue who this is. Jean notices my pursed lips and pulls a rough expression. “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“It’s got to suck being disappointed like that. I really don’t. Won’t risk it and guess, it would make things a lot more awful.” I look to the side, gaze sliding over the curve of a fighter’s hip. Saw this guy on the ring. He was good. “Let’s just say I don’t know so that his reveal is more epic.”

“Deal.” Jean smiles. “Hey, you like it here.”

“I feel comfortable.”

“Bet you would think about your mommy if you were up on that podium, you little fucking shrimp.”

“Bet you wouldn’t even step up the ladder, crook.”

His red tongue sticks out of his mouth. “Suck a—“

Jean is interrupted by a split in the previously playing song.

The whole crowd goes silent, abundant with curiosity. With a loud scratch, the music resumes, but the speakers play a different song. The crowd’s silence lasts just a moment longer, eventually disrupted by an impromptu series of screams all around the basement.

“Is the break over?” Jean asks, out of breath.

“I don’t know. I guess. Is it starting?”

“We’ve got to get back to the ring, this shit’s _priceless_. I hope you appreciate my efforts and pay close attention. You won’t see this guy anywhere else, _ever_.”

I notice the masses shifting towards a certain moving point in the room. I jump to see over the ocean of heads and notice two people coming out of a secluded cabinet on the very opposite corner we’re standing in—and the crowd goes jackshit.

The first man walking couldn’t be a street fighter by any means. It doesn’t look like he serves any other purpose than shoveling through people.

The guy stepping on his heels is a good portion shorter and steeps aggression. Upon seeing him, even Jean throws his hands up in amazement, spreading the ashes of the Jamaican cigar all over my hair. This must be _the _Ares. I have to squint to clearly see his figure.

Military cut, but the face just screams he’s not the Navy slice. Scars, scrapes, dents, a lot of them, all on display under the blinding bulbs; some ridged, most haven’t healed right. Inked. Thoroughly. The shoulders give away he’s served for at least five years with change, his slight hunch means that he grapples; fuck, _great_, he knows basic combat _and _he’s been through good grappling—guy’s going to take his opps down like it’s nothing and I _know _this.

“That’s the guy, right?” I yell over the supporters of his, tugging at Jean’s belt. “He’s not a fair opponent in any of the fights that are about to follow.”

“It’s rumored he’s been to hell and back,” Jean replies, being pushed around by the surrounding viewers. “They say he eats chains for dinner. Not sure how legit that is, but look at him. I don’t think there’s a smidge of a lie.”

People are all over him. They smack their hands all over his pectorals and back, girls try reaching his hair and thick neck, but he restlessly moves away from every touch more intimate. Oh, I bet this guy has enemies. This guy has people that want him bleeding out on a boardwalk in Seattle.

I carefully process every move he makes to be able to categorize him with the previous fighters, but he hasn’t acted a single bit like any of them. Ares has got a raw fucking aura. No boasting, no excessive attention milking, only publicly presented disgust. He looks tired of all the hype around his presence. He mushes his hand all over a puddle of blood when he gets on that fucking ring, you know, and I see him rub his fingers all over his palm. This man does not give a fuck. He just wants to get this out of his way.

I feel indescribably sorry for whoever is next up with him present.

“What’s his name?” I turn to Jean. “Like—real name? This place have Wi-Fi? I’ll look up his file.”

“Eren, you won’t find this guy," Jean screams over the pushing. "Know _Burn Notice?_ Like that. A nameless underground legend with astounding agility, proven tactical thinking and insane field of combat knowledge. That’s all he is. No friends, no family, just a world full of foes, hatred and illegal fame he gets nowhere with.”

I feel my stomach twist.

The referee announces that Ares has stepped on the podium and mentions a shortly arriving opponent named Rex.

I watched the taller, meatier man climb up the ring. His weight class definitely overthrows Ares’ by at least one tally. The difference is mesmerizing and slightly horrifying. If I were to bet with the Irish guys again, they would likely place the money on Rex, thus making me win again, without even _suspecting _I’d win. The undeniable agility Ares possesses is going to bust Rex’s ass.

The lights go up. I had expected Ares’ scars to stretch down lower and continue the distressing pattern on his arms and ribcage, but all I see are tattoos. Cover-up. The texture of the scarring still shines through inked skin. He has an amazing form, mass and posture, whereas Rex seems bodily more lean.

I can’t hear the referee shout the announcement due to the music and feral screaming all round, but once the pair begins the death circle, I know that the game is on.

See, what I’d originally assumed street fighters suffer from is their lack of control. It’s not like that with Ares. It’s not like that at all. He _is _the alpha of the pack, of the cubs in the underground, the leader in the traditional setting.

I get as close to the ring as I can. My interest is seriously piqued; is _he _going to latch out first? What about Rex? Does the Top Dog overpower even a physically larger enemy, is the moral intimidation and respect of his pack enough to discourage his opponent? Rex’s supporters are numerically smaller than…us. I guess I am one of the screamers now.

I watch Rex’s expression erupt just a second before he swings a fist in Ares’ direction. He dodges it swiftly and with ease, and it looks more like a fun game at Fantasy Park rather than a death match with more than three hundred people watching. He _does _take a blow on his forearm, not strong enough for a bruise, and it does nothing to shatter his throne. Rex then receives a flat crown at the face. It causes him to stagger back.

Ares is sweating. His skin holds a sheer glow under the white lights. I suddenly wish I had that cigar of Jean’s so it distracts me from thinking about fighting the guy and getting a notorious dash of adrenaline from just the _concept _of this. This is going to ride me up a wall; I want it so bad.

Rex doesn’t seem too joyous over the situation. With his left palm, he rubs circles in the skin of his jaw. His shorter opponent is constantly on the move, keeping his guard up, shuffling on his feet, and suddenly grins; _beams _with a victorious smile, and I slowly but steadily realize that he’s got it figured out, he’s _got _Rex, _he’s got it all figured out._

I gape, mouth wide open, not phased by anything else than what is happening on the pod.

Everything Jean said was right. His movements are swift, precise, calculated, any miniscule mistake canceled out with a hard blow to the op, though he doesn’t allow many mistakes. He is the mercury of the ring, the ever-living spirit of the underground, the way he moves seems more like an intoxicating dance lesson.

I turn to look for Jean in the moving mass of people, but get distracted by the sudden, literally _insane _screaming all around, so I have to look back at the current wrestling match and outweigh the situation.

At first, seeing them both on the floor, I think that the physical force, sheer mass and inertia of Rex has gotten the best out of this match. After a closer look, I realize that it’s the tattooed arm hooked around Rex’s neck. It had taken him only a few seconds to get Rex in that lock.

I can’t believe it. _Rex is tapping._

_I can’t fucking believe it._

The winner closes his eyes upon his victory and smiles. Suddenly dizzy, I push my way backwards through the crowd, back over to the water fountain, hoping Jean isn’t a witness of this. He’d think it’s one of my not-so-heteronormative breakdowns, but it feels like motion sickness, like I’d be _seasick_.

I change my mind the last minute. Instead of rushing to the fountain, I go straight to B exit. I need some air. Air, a cigarette, and ideally, a short conversation with the man that has just jumped off the slippery ring and is heading to B exit as well.


	2. Foxtrot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's up peepzzz welcome back to the bloodfest
> 
> since my book is already out, i've been working on all the things i haven't updated in forever. you guys REALLY fucking like this apparently???????? which is crazy? i did not expect.....??? why potato fall from ceiling?!?!?? the first few chapters are relatively non-ereri but it's gonna get so mf juicy so mf soon........!!!
> 
> find me as [@gazastripping](https://gazastripping.tumblr.com) on tumblr! here is the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1UTX7AEIz4vkjOmey16ugx?si=zz6hQpPxTOizH75GymTyfQ).

** LEVI **

I am sweating an awful quantity and head to the prep room to wipe the shit off before going out for air. You better have good lungs down here.

Behind me, Foxtrot gets called on ring. I shake my head and think to myself that, out of all the fighters down here, Fox should’ve been hard into retirement. The guy doesn’t understand. But I don’t need to look back at the podium to know he is going to win. I don’t doubt for a second that the night ends with us two on the ring. No liberty of choice. I know this dance too fucking well.

I’ve got a solid fifteen minutes before it’s my turn to go back up, and it should be my last fight.

Things have never been organized here, fighters turn and wrestle in the vaguest possible order. But I’ve been there for quite a while, and there’s some instinct to it. Like avoiding a teacher when he’s searching for an imbecile to interrogate, you just know you’re gonna get fucking picked. And because they want the bloodbath, I’m inevitably lined up with Foxtrot.

The prep room is too quiet compared to the chaos outside. It’s an old butchery kitchen. There is a closet full of polished stainless steel tables and knives for the meat that used to be sliced here. Not the most comfortable place to be in. I’m quite sure people have killed each other here.

Coming back in after a fight isn’t necessary. Usually fighters go find their girlfriends or wearily force themselves on the nearest available body, blood all over their face, satisfied for their self-fed ego. Bad strategy, acting like shit’s already won when it’s not. You never win down here. Victory is mere survival.

The crowd is on my nerves, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the energy exuding from it. It’s a good drug, keeps you on your feet between two roundhouses in the jaw and a strike in the stomach. Some lose all their blood just to hear the crowd root for them. It’s half of the show.

You get to see the lowest scum of this universe, the shaved heads, tattered bodies and inked necks of your brothers. With every fight, you learn to tell by the way people look at each other that they’ve been through their personally designed hell. It’s not about being all innocent and mannered like the lower-class fighters who open the ceremony; they’re efficient. They put up an artificial show—like modern MMA. They want to prove that they’re worth the watch. Up-the-ladder wrestlers like I am, we struggle not to be depressed after each fight. Some kind of inner emptiness only a kick in the ribcage can cure, the emptiness that got you up on that ring in the first place. That’s why it’s so hard to leave when you’ve been in it for decades. At my age, leaving would mean dying on ring.

We don’t retire.

We die.

First aid box on the table. I walk around it to inspect my damage. No compress necessary—I’m not bleeding much, but I do wipe at the sweat and spit. For the appeal of it, the dried blood at the curve of my jaw I keep, because it doesn’t belong to me. It is a known pride moment to wear someone else’s ichor. Blood is what strikes most beginners when they watch a fight or participate in it. It’s a hellish kind of red.

It’s dark enough outside for me to merge with the night, taking a mashed cigarette out from the pocket of the black zip-up I’d put on and hadn’t bothered zipping up. They say you should cover yourself after a fight, but I get heat flashes and hate being dressed.

Someone involved in a vivid conversation spots me leaning against the wall. I tense my jaw. Recognition. I hate to be stolen the few moments of privacy I can get, but you can’t smoke in the prep room. Their conversation is abruptly cut and I move my toes in my combat boots, bracing myself to either get jumped or praised.

“Hey!” He calls out. “Got a cigarette? It’s our last one.”

My muscles immediately relax. I take another one out of my pocket—not my usual pack of sticks, but feeble rolled cigarettes Erwin did for me before the event. The guy’s sweet, but he rolls like a holy sister.

The guy walks up to me. I stretch out my arm as far as I’m able to. Avoiding human contact is a fun pass-time. When I check the case as he walks off, I come to conclude it was my last one. Glad to be deprived of it. One less vice to care about.

When he took the cigarette from me, he seemed to look for something recognizable in my face, but there’s no chance. The hood draped over, abdomen hidden by the sides of my hoodie, I’m already too dressed to be a fighter. Being a running underground legend is tough. Nobody gets to hang your picture up their wall. People barely recognize your face in the light of day. Quiet fame—right up my alley.

I smoke when stressed. On quiet days, it gives me away.

“That was…really nice.”

This voice comes from the other side, hesitant, but rather sincere—a face ruined by a shadow and a timbre that couldn’t be older than twenty, push or pull.

“’s just a cigarette,” I say.

The silence prolongs. The shadow curves as he smiles and lightly shakes his head. I realize my assumption was off.

“Not talking about the cigarette, were you?” I ask, wishing the other smokers wouldn’t catch our conversation, although it has nothing of a secret.

The door creaks and someone joins the backyard to smoke. The automatic light above it turns on. Out of reflex, I look down to hide, and the boy by my side looks right at it—how laughably different our reflexes.

“Yeah—uh…” He’s looking for things to say now that he’s realized I’m not going to do small talk or bow at recognition. The words I say are measured beforehand. “Well—I’m Eren.”

“Hey.”

Seems enough for me. But from the way he runs his hand through his hair, not enough for him. Suddenly I almost feel sorry to be so dry and aggressive when people seem to pay real interest. Nobody likes me when you scrub harder—so this must be how I cope with it.

“Aren’t you a bit young to visit dismal places like this?” A pause, and I exhale. “I’m back up in ten minutes.”

I hope that he sees the hidden invitation. He has five minutes to ponder, five minutes to talk, and if he’s good, I might talk back.

He has free rein. No point in giving out my street name; he knows who I am. No point in giving out my real name; doesn’t have to know who I am. Not much pretense. We don’t have to know each other. But he has already broken my known etiquette by letting me know that he is Eren.

I give him a look while the light’s still on. The face, though nervous, is kind. He seems like the short-tempered type, sensitive, proud, acting on nerve and instinct rather than giving shit any deeper thought. The kind to get in trouble scandalously easy.

The light goes off again, and I rebuild his face with my memory. The shadows don’t make him any older, which doesn’t excite me.

I want him to take me on, just so I can break the kind on his face and rebuild it. His bare torso gives away school recess fights and consistent training. Of _what _isn’t my business. Likely a wrestling fan. Good reason to be here tonight.

** EREN **

“I’m going back in ten minutes.”

Okay, great, ten minutes is frankly _just _enough—

Thanks, I’ll be quick—

Cool, so you were pretty much a _monster _out there—_fuck, what reply is a **good, astounding, original **reply?_

I still can’t believe I’m talking to the guy. My sudden lackluster of ambition in front of this godly, but stiff and antisocial creature is a rare sight. His thrown hint about my given ten minutes is a lifesaver charged straight at my head.

“Sorry, I—I don’t know what to say, asides from fawning over your modified CQC. The distraction stunts were bomb, too.” I scratch my shoulder, suddenly anxious over my bare chest and baby bruises. “I like your style. It’s like a mutilated version of every form of combat.”

The only way of shaping up his silhouette is the lazy smoke and floating red cherry of the cigarette. It lights up as he takes a long drag. I watch his chest rise and glisten in the distant light the streetlamps shed around the corner. The factor of him sweating even several minutes after the fight convinces me he’d really taken his opponent with high physical saturation. The better your shape, the easier and quicker you break a sweat.

I find myself esteeming the lower curve of his hip. It fades out near his navel and disappears behind the snug waistband of his shorts. Jean would say, stop staring, but I can’t shake the fact that I look like a washboard next to his pure mass.

It depresses me _greatly _that I can’t just slam up a conversation and exchange phone numbers within these ten minutes. I can’t even feel my fingertips against the shoulder I’ve been scratching raw for the past minutes.

A group of kids my age burst out the door that cues the automatic lamp at the same time Ares hesitantly offers me the cigarette he’d been smoking. It looks wonky once light shines on it, but I take it nonetheless. Maybe this looks casual enough. Body language wise, he seems to have opened up, even leans back against the same wall I’ve been propping against this whole time.

The face is still hard to piece together from the running shadows being cast upon us, but I can now form an image of two slanted eyes, thick lashes, straight, dense eyebrows and a strong jawline, long smear of blood tracing the very outline of it. He looks exactly like the Korean web comic street fighter characters; the only thing missing is an inefficient outfit and plasma blasting out of this guy’s palms.

He rolls his head to the side and does a slow French inhale, which I amusedly watch.

“Lanky for a fighter,” he then says. “Don’t see twigs like you hanging around often.”

He thinks I’m a fighter. Is this a universal compliment, or complete mockery?

“Oh—I’m not. I mean, I enjoy sparring, but it’s not exactly official, you know?”

“I know.”

“I’m not licensed. Don’t have any belts, at that.” I almost throw up a whole paragraph about brawling with Jean.

“Neither do I.”

“I’m just here for the show.” A short break to smoke the forgotten cigarette and limit my word output. “It’s my birthday.”

“All the best to you, then.”

“Well, thank you.”

He watches me for a while, probably trying to figure how old I actually am. The interest then dissipates and he looks away. After an impolite break I realize he’s heavily disinterested in keeping this conversation running. Terrified that I’m about to waste several more minutes of his time, I begin cracking my chipped, bruised knuckles, generating small talk ideas to bring up—just to keep this holy shit going on for a while longer.

Just a second more. _Please._

This time, he’s the one to speak up.

“You ever bind them?” He asks, pointing at my hands. “Don’t ruin all the fun in fighting with dislocated joints and lopsided thumb creases. Treat yourself better.”

“I don’t take fighting that seriously,” I murmur, suddenly embarrassed over the fact that I am scolded for something. “It’s all stress relief and self-defense.”

He slicks his hair back, letting the hood slip off. “Well, look into it. Might prove worthy.”

Puzzled by the meaning of this, I stand still, the burnt filter of our cigarette still squeezed between my fingers.

“Self-defense isn’t instinctive,” he adds. “Don’t save on martial arts, take the classes. It’s better to up your level the right way.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

What makes him different from the rest is the arched nose. _It’s never been broken._

“My friend said you eat chains for dinner,” I blurt out.

He barks a laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

He looks like the guys on the covers of _DAZED_.

He looks like he’s tired of dealing with people like me. He looks annoyed, but almost confused, shares both expressions at the same time, and while his movements on the ring are all clear and readable like Braille to a blind child, the slump in his shoulders and leaning on foot to foot makes this man completely unpresentable to the local neighborhood without them thinking he’s a deranged veteran with a mental case.

“Were you a marine?” I suddenly ask, urged to check if I was right back down in the basement.

“Yes.”

“Post-Vietnam?”

“I haven’t been in Vietnam.”

There’s still Iraq. There’s still Afghanistan.

“But you know the heel hook choke. Vietnamese soldiers were trained to use this in close combat,” I excitedly say. “You know, it’s banned from a lot of competitions just because it’s usually lethal.”

“Vietnam isn’t the only place they train heel hook chokes at,” Ares replies. “Do you always think theory applies in practice?”

“I said, I don’t do it professionally, so most I know is theoretical.”

“No one here does, but no one pretends to have the smarts, either,” he calmly says, hands shoved down the pockets of his grey shorts. “We should’ve chatted after you took a few blows downstairs; whole different tongue on ring.”

He’s wearing unlaced leather combat boots and socks just above where the boot ends. The shorts are cut with scissors; probably his own handiwork. The edge is ridged and has sparse threads straying out.

I have the chance to talk to an underground legend and I do a bad job at it. This guy must’ve had a bad week. I bet he’d take me in a full Americana and kiss me two bolo punches. I think he could kill me if he very much desired. So to let the few remaining minutes pass by, I settle on just looking at him before he swims back inside the building and hammers another guy out the ring. The pair of men that asked for the cigarette open the door to head downstairs. This offers another beam of the automatic, and we both hear a blaring sound coming from down under.

My feared, anticipated and most loathed ten minutes are up, and I haven’t managed to impress him in any way. Not that I’m exactly memorable to begin with.

Ares pulls off the wall and yanks the hood back on. Raising his arms make the zip-up rise along, revealing a brawly, well-fortified waist. I bet it’d break a baseball bat in half if I charged and hit.

“I’m up. Thanks for the company,” he then says, walking past me, towards the door.

My heartbeat amps in an attempt to grapple everything I’d forgotten to ask. I suddenly remember Jean saying he’s got no file and cross my arms to conserve some form of bodily heat, turning around as well.

“Hey, can I ask you one more thing?” I call after him. “Just one thing.”

The man stops, back turned against me. “Unless it’s my age or security number, hit it.”

“Do you have a normal name I can refer to?”

He stares at me over his shoulder, visibly outweighing the possible outcome of his answer. I’m staring straight at him as he is now right at the door with the light above clearly embossing his features like he’s one of Charlie’s fucking angels dipped in hot white wax.

The guy then flips his head to the side and checks for people in the yard. After that, he eyes me head to toe, and looks back at the staircase that leads down to the basement and his upcoming match.

“Safe to call me Cuckoo Jones,” he cheekily says, completely uncharacteristic to his collected image.

I almost drop a lung from the sudden jolt of laughter.

Cuckoo Jones himself doesn’t seem entertained by my amusement. “What’s so funny about it? Cuckoo Jones is just as real of a name as _Eren _is.”

“Eren _is _my real name,” I immediately object.

“Fine. Let’s say Levi’s my fake name, then,” he finishes as if it’s the most anticlimactic matter of all time, and disappears behind the polished door.

Levi? That’s a horribly rare name. I stand still for a second. After a silent round of footsteps, the door opens once more.

“I’d prefer if you kept it private,” the now familiar voice calls. “Thanks beforehand, because I will kill you if you don’t. And happy birthday—again.”

It slams close. I’m left shirtless in the freezing backyard, but my stomach feels warm.

** LEVI **

If he was a fighter, talking to me would’ve been a mistake. But because he is not, it seems that we have both parted with satisfaction, and no blood has been shed.

Back when I was his age, whatever n–teen number he is, shit was no different. Young guys trying to chum with the Top Dogs for mentorship so they can tear apart the older generation’s title and claim it as theirs. Circle of life. My time here is just as limited. There will always be people seeking a place to belong to, an outlet to have; poor boys from the deep slums of this town, convinced they’re worth something. How sweet can that downfall be?

I don’t need to look back to know I haven’t been followed.

Erwin is standing at the bottom of the stairs, in the lit doorframe deprived of an actual door, waiting for me like Old fucking Yeller.

“Where were you?” He asks.

“Out.”

“You’re up next.”

“Good.”

“I always look forward to days when you’re this talkative.”

Erwin and I enlisted together. He was a rank above me, but we seemed to get along despite our drastically different personas. I’ve never been able to tell if it’s a good or a bad thing, but at least he knows what to expect from me: not much. And it’s easier that way.

“Don’t go outside,” I say. “There’s the paparazzi. Just got asked too many questions in a time span too little, and I think I should limit my further social interactions to about three words a month.”

I am exaggerating. Eren didn’t talk much. He said more than I usually get to hear, but at least it was valuable praise. I don’t think I’m going to see him again. He seemed stupid sentimental over his birthday, so I gave him the meek birthday gift and tried talking, though I am not exactly the man to mince my words—or a man of words to begin with.

“I hope you’re excited—you’re up with Fox,” Erwin says as we walk to the hangar. “Zeke’s so pretty today, and it’s all for you.”

“Erwin…”

“Just shut the fucker up for once. If I see him down here one more time, I’ll get on ring myself and make a bowtie off his guts.”

“Erwin, you don’t have a whole arm. What are you saying, you big, stupid man?”

Zeke and I know each other well—better than I’d like to admit. He was my favorite to spar with in the military, because we had both lost the drive for life and could go full force on each other. Everyone else was too precautious, and it bored me. But as it goes with every man lost, if he doesn’t find himself to be driven for greater good, he falls back. He started working for the wrong people, dislodged his vow to his country just to chase an artificial sense of authority and promise for a future payoff—and blew Erwin’s arm off during a terrorist attack on our camp in 1998. I was full of shrapnel.

We shared a hospital ward.

At the memory of it, my throat tightens. I’m not scared, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of winning. We have been up against each other, and it ends in a draw most times. The positive aspect is that, at the top of competition, there’s few runner-ups, and some are forced to fight several rounds in a row. If I have Zeke all prepped up for me, I sport a chance to put him down like the fucking dog he is.

Since they share a weight class, Erwin would have done Zeke a good number. But because Zeke has done him the great favor of taking much of his functionality away, I’m the one to own up for the both of us.

Erwin and I pass through the doorway. The entrance door is only half-closed, blasting sound that would make an angel go deaf. I catch my name being chanted.

“I’m up,” I say.

“See you when I see you.” Erwin throws a twisted salute. “Try not to get your dignity stepped on.”

“It’s see you _if _I see you.”

“You’re not dying on ring, so don’t be melodramatic and pack his jaw up.” He disappears in the crowd, and I turn around.

Dignity. Whether you leave with or without it is up to you. I don’t care to ruminate on my losses. I can lose, but preferably not to Foxtrot.

The crowd is more aggressive. Foxtrot is avidly supported down here—but so am I. I walk faster than before and elbow people in every direction, forcing my way through the masses.

I see Zeke. He’s already up on the ring, smiling—and it’s a violent one. It would be very _Foxtrot _to offer me a hand to help me up that I could deny, but he stands very still and waits. I haul myself up and kick my boots off. Move my toes around, roll my neck. Zeke doesn’t buy the warm-up.

We take our hoodies off at the same time.

The spectators go nuts through the mic. It’s the last fight of the night, or so I’ve been told—thus deciding who leaves with the crown. There is no factual crown, no real medal or reward; just the rumored dignity.

I look at the floor. It hasn’t been mopped up since I was last here. There is blood, spit, vomit and chunks of pulled hair all mixed up in a flurry mass. The blood is fresh and smeared, and it draws the most intricate painting there is to be seen. Zeke’s knees are stained with it. He is likely responsible for the gloomy artwork.

This is fine.

I can use his face to wipe it clean.

The bell rings. The referee announces the beginning of the fight, backed by the endless screams from the crowd, shouting and demanding blood.

“Oh, smalls,” Zeke says, fists turned inwards.

I pop my mouth guard in and imitate the gesture. “Shut the fuck up.”

Neither of us dares to throw the first hit, and we end up dancing in circles. He is a much better dancer than I am, and the name is well earned. If I wasn’t used to the constant shuffling, I would’ve gone dizzy.

The dance comes to an end when someone in the audience screams louder than the rest, a piercing voice that almost splits the room in two—and as if this were his cue, Zeke lashes out with a banded fist. I have enough of a good reflex to dodge it, escaping the impact by an ounce of sheer luck—but he doesn’t stop there and twirls swiftly to execute the most arrogant spinning back fist I’ve ever witnessed.

I block his arm, but the complimentary leg thrown my way meets my left side, right in the ribs. It’s such a nuanced and excruciating pain that I mewl. The crowd goes awry.

Foxtrot wastes no time. He sends the good old hook, efficient, but predictable, and I reach for his face with an overhand. He has the reflex to bring his forearm to his face, but tastes the damage through the edge of his jaw. I’ve redistributed the pain—we’re both hurt now.

Zeke won’t do another back fist now that I’ve seen his form, because exposing your back in a fight is just like putting a gun to your temple with the trigger halfway pulled. Standing rear choke, quick jab aimed at the spine, there’s nothing easier than punching a back, because no defense is possible in said position. This is Christmas to your opp.

Zeke is skilled. He has notions in combined Muay Thai and Taekwondo, which leaves me alert. I need to decide what parts of my body I can bear to leave exposed, because I can’t protect everything at once. Vile as he is, he might go for the ribs again while keeping my arms busy. Maybe his goal is to put me down efficiently. Strength-wise, he is more than capable to keep me pinned under his foot like an overly obedient dog.

I dread the thought of him predicting my next move. Even worse: predicting my own predictions about him. We mirror each other because we come from the same root. This is a chess game. We have figured each other’s potential moves several rounds ahead.

I catch his eyes focused downwards. My face freezes—_what the fuck_—I know what he’s thinking. My _legs_.

He is going for the holy infallible trinity: ribs-legs-ribs. Get the chest and you’ve got your op hurt—the gold-plated occasion to destroy his legs. Get him on the ground and he’s your whore now—beyond that, your toughest decision is the one where you choose which move to end him with. It’s Zeke, so I know he’ll happily do a take two on the ribs, just to make sure he fractures a pair.

I can fuck up all I want while standing, but I _can’t_end up on the ground. He’ll slice my throat with a perfectly angled kick, and then it’s over.

Ares will bleed out on the ring he was born.

He’ll either grab my leg on the first given opportunity, or reach for it with a swift move of the ankle, a nice hook that would do the trick with enough momentum and right angling. Depending on my next move, my death can be painful or very painful. I don’t think Zeke is going to take any risks with his own legs.

“I’ve missed you, cadet Ackerman!” Zeke teases from barely two feet away, which is a reasonably dangerous distance. If I don’t have a plan, it can make me scared enough to retreat to the corner of the ring. That would be a sad ending. You get cornered, you’re done.

You’re just fucking dead.

“Yes, likewise,” I grunt, chewing my mouth guard.

I analyze his arm placement. Maybe using my legs is the only way out—he doesn’t seem particularly ready to expose his torso.

He hits me straight in the face. It hurts my jaw. Juicily, I give him the same treatment. The hard slap rings in my ears. We both shake our heads to get the buzz out.

My hormones hit an end point and I hysterically laugh. Zeke frowns in irritation.

After this, it gets messy.

Zeke kicks me in the stomach, which makes me gag, but I get to fracture his nose. It takes him several seconds to recover, so I brace myself and throw my leg up in the air, the high cut aimed right at Zeke’s face. A hot pain flashes through my stomach at the notion. He hadn’t seen the kick coming and is taken by surprise—and I’m still on my feet.

When my heel meets his cheek, all the glorious violence of this world falls into place.

He stumbles backwards, furiously bleeding from the ear. The kick winded me, so he gets the opportunity to go for my legs. I avoid the low kick, but Zeke reacts quicker and elbows me in the face. I feel my lip split open even through the mouth guard—the teeth are intact when I bite down the rubber. As a response, I punch the ear that isn’t bleeding. The way he closes his eyes is highly significant: I hit good. I hit right.

But Zeke is a fucking monster. He looks at me, tongue hanging out of his mouth, dripping with blood, and he is huffing loud and heavy through it, like a gundog.

My ribs hurt. My stomach is pulsing. I’m in extreme pain. I hope he is, as well.

Zeke strikes, and I head downwards, shouldering him in the stomach; he catches my head with both hands and gives a messy upper kick with his right knee. I answer with an expressive punch to his crotch, and his knees buck. No groin guard? What a classic.

It works its wonder. We separate, eyes locked. But my eyes glaze and I focus over his shoulder, because something attracts me in the crowd.

Surprisingly close to the ring stands a shirtless boy, glowing from sweat under the pale light of the basement. His frown is particularly expressive, and his mouth is hanging open. We make eye contact—his frown disappears, and he just stares, shuffled around by the people surrounding him.

It’s a clean, pretty face that he has, and he’s looking back at me.

The birthday boy. The Eren.

And within a split second, I realize that my biggest fuckup has commenced.

_Fuck. Birthday. Sentiment._

Zeke has stridently headed my way. He grabs my neck and locks me under his armpit. I grab his back and the hand that is holding me tight—and despite this grapple move being easier without boxing gloves, it doesn’t seem to work at all.

He has me.

I try to hook around his legs. I can’t hear anything but volatile screams merging together, some rooting for him, others pleading me to get out of his grip.

I knew this was going to happen one day.

I looked at the pit.

This is a beginner’s mistake.

The tingling sensation of asphyxiation arrives. My face is likely growing a dark red. Desperate, I throw my hips backwards—and the momentum makes Zeke stumble. I kick him the shin first, then hook myself around his knees. His large body loses all balance. As a result, his tight grip loosens, and I manage to get out—but not by much. I realize, in raw horror, that on his way down, he’s wrapped his arm around my calf.

I fall to the ground with a loud, evocative thud, which seems to echo and reverberate. I hope this doesn’t predict my imminent death. I have my cheek pressed against the cold, greasy, bloody ground. Some of it gets in my eye. It stings. I feel sweat drip across my face, down from my hair, into my open, gasping mouth.

Through the ropes of the ring, I stare blindly into the crowd.

Eren isn’t there anymore.

“What’s the matter?” He growls, trying to put me into another lock. “Someone in the crowd you wanna impress, smalls?”

My grown borders a scream, and I writhe with more force than before. Zeke’s face flashes crazy. He tries to reach for my neck again, but I kick him in the shoulder. I take advantage of his bewilderment and twist my body, hip hard against the ground, digging my heel right into his face.

The effect is immediate—the crowd confirms it.

In fights with a familiar opponent, there are few words and no provocative questions. It’s sheer intimidation based on your history. If the screams and background music wouldn’t take over our muffled breathing and sore moans, we would lose focus relatively quickly—and this is a very surprising detail of fighting on a ring in front of hundreds.

I rush to sit straight and Zeke plunges for my legs again. Instinctively, spread my legs wide at a right angle and land him in a suffocating lock. Blocked between my thighs, he can’t do much but blindly reach out and hit my core. I fall back on the ground to have better grip.

Don’t underestimate how erotic violent sports can look. Right there, so close to my junk, Zeke could be in paradise, if matters were different.

For a second, I think I have him. Considering the repetitive damage I’d inflicted upon him, he should be exhausted. Problem is: I am, too. This has been a very masochistic dance of foxtrot.

He knows this, so he digs his thumb between my already pulsing ribs. I cry out wildly, head hitting the ground. This blurs my surroundings. I don’t entirely let go, but the grip falls weaker, and thus, he manages to escape.

My ribcage, shoulders and head are blocked, and the aimless punches I throw don’t do more than make him twist in every direction to avoid them.

“Give up, Levi,” Zeke whispers as he holds me down tight, his mouth so close to my face that his breath hits me hot on the ear. “Give. _Up.”_

I think of tapping. I feel that there is a way out, but being caged between Zeke’s limbs, I can barely breathe, and therefor think. In fact—I can’t breathe. _I can’t breathe._

I tap.

I tap his shoulder first, softly, trying to convince myself that, maybe, I haven’t lost after all. And just when I think Zeke would let go of me, he leans closer. His bloody teeth merge into my distorted view.

“Give up, smalls,” he growls. “You are no longer the Top Dog.” 

I tap harder and grab at his shoulder with a sense of urgency; but there’s no doubt. He knows exactly where this is heading.

Approximately twenty more seconds, and I will pass out. S_on of a fucking bitch. _I can hear the crowd going wild over this—_where is the referee?_

I feel my shit going blurry. Zeke decides to spice it up by switching the position; his legs catch my waist in a clever attempt to bring me down again, and he locks his ankles around my back. He holds me good. I feel my arm being pulled back.

I witness the move that leads me to my very end—Zeke pulls my wrist with his free hand and falls back, his leg up on my back, pushing my face straight against the ground.

There it is: the kimura lock. He has me with the kimura submission lock.

I close my eyes. Open my mouth, but no air is coming in. _It hurts like fucking hell._

I scream wildly when Zeke puts pressure on my arm—_my shoulder just got dislocated_—he urges me to give up, and I hear people in the audience screeching for me to tap.

So, I tap. _Again._

This is not supposed to be a reoccurrence.

I tap once, and then twice, then again, another time—and Zeke doesn’t react. Fear comes rushing through my veins, keeping me conscious through the pain. The crowd gets loud, and everyone is the enraged witness of what Zeke is trying to do. I tap again, as hard as I can against the bloody ground that my jaw is pressed against. My hearing becomes fuzzy.

Through hard, heavy blinks, I hazily see someone step on ring.

A pause.

He lets me go.

All my muscles relax, and my blood beats in my ears, rushing to give my brain oxygen. When I get up, my mouth bleeds profusely. It dribbles on the ground like a ripe fruit.

Zeke offers his hand to conclude the round. I shake my head, spit the blood at his chest, and turn around. The crowd collectively cheers—and let me tell you why. 

Nobody ignores a tap-out.

It is the universal signal that victory is being served straight to you. It is the one rule we rightfully abide. It is the underground fucking dogma. Why didn’t he react? What was it that he tried to prove?

I spit more blood on the ring and wipe the remnants off my lips with an irritated flick of the forearm.

“Better luck next time, Le—“

I whip around before he registers the movement and plunge towards him, addressing my most sincere respect with the sharpest right hook in my collection.

His head snaps. For a split second I hope I’ve fractured his jaw, but he stumbles backwards and raises his fingers to his chin. When the initial shock settles, he attempts to attack me, but the referee hooks his arm around Zeke’s elbow.

When Zeke has twisted out of the referee’s grip and charges the second time, I’m already off the ring.

I wasted this round.

I was not present.

I was not there.

I let myself get distracted.

I make my way through the crowd, ignoring the love from the masses despite my cruel aftertaste of loss, and head for the prep room where Erwin has hopefully dropped my shit off, massaging my sore ribcage and swallowing mouthfuls of hot blood.

Through the thick, smoke-filled air, I notice Eren—and hope that this was an entertaining fucking birthday show for him.

** EREN **

My ears are so used to the music I can rhythmically tap my foot without even paying attention and hit every snare on time.

I rub my hands up and down my pockets to warm my cold thighs by causing friction, but the hairs on my legs are not willing to cooperate without causing prickling pain from being pulled at.

I noticed not too long ago that most people smoking out in the backyard had cleared out and went back downstairs. As a result all I'm left with is a pair of distantly barking dogs, howling and whistling up at the imperfect moon. I watch my warm breath spiral off, up into the cold, slurry night sky; I feel the smoky, delicious aftertaste of Levi’s cigarette. I lick my lips. Sadly, it just leaves me with a gutted feeling.

_The guy’s weird, _I think, sentence by sentence, jumping down the slab stairs on my way back to the hall. _He’s off his rocker. Probably got the soul beaten out of him and spiritually graduated into another chakra. Went berserk, now an icon. Seems like the coolest guy, if befriended. So how do I befriend him?_

The humid air down here comes like an unexpected blast straight into my face. My nose wrinkles like a bag of Jimmy Beans.

It seems that I’ve arrived right on time for the contestants to quit their death leaps and get it going on. Over the hundreds of heads, through the deafening screams, I spot five-two Levi and his six-foot tall opponent. I also look for Jean, but it's hard to see anything other than the lit ring, and I drop the idea, focusing on getting closer to the podium.

Levi takes a dulling blow to the ribs, at which I choke on my breath, but his posture seems just fine. The response given is a chic overhand I think as too weak to equalize his taken damage, but seeing the other man stumble, it might’ve been just right. What ticks me off is that I’d missed the very beginning and the striped referee announcing both contestants. From what I can put together hearing the people around me is that this isn’t their first fight, and that there’s a good chance either might die. That seems interesting and extremely terrifying, but makes Levi’s taken blows reasonable.

“Is this the last fight?” I yell at a blonde girl next to me.

“Yeah.”

“Who’s fighting Ares?”

“Foxtrot. Been in the spotlight for a few years. Would rank maybe second, third. Haven’t seen better locks, but he specializes in footwork.” She pauses. “Hence the nickname—Foxtrot.”

“What’s that?”

“A dance.”

“My name’s Eren.” I stretch my hand for her to shake.

She does. “Annie. You frequent?”

“No, first time ever. My friend dragged me here, it’s my birthday.”

“Sweet. Happy B.”

“Thanks.” I beam. “Hey, if you see a shirtless guy with white hair, can you let him know I’ll be at the water fountain?”

Annie scratches the corner of her mouth. “I think I saw him just a minute ago. Full sleeves? Nose ring, ‘round your height?”

“That’s gotta be him.”

“He’s at C exit.” She points across the room. “It’s next to the big door.”

I rise on my toes right on time to see Levi convulse from a sharp hit in the abdomen. Foxtrot has a clean-cut style that is hard to pick up at this pace and distance, and I know I have to get closer before this ends on a tragic note.

Levi pummels at his opponent’s nose, landing the perfect punch, and, as Foxtrot recharges, aims a sidekick that would likely be lethal if executed in full strength. The crowd shifts so hard that I get elbowed in several places and lose sight of the ring for at least twenty seconds. To avoid from letting this happen again, I push through, moving myself towards C exit in hopes I can find Jean and get back to the ring.

Breaking through this breathing ocean is difficult and makes me sweat more than I already am. My chest is dripping, my face is completely wet, and my thighs chafe. Being on the other side of the ring gives me a splendid view on Foxtrot’s backside and Ares’ front. Levi’s mouth and nose are bleeding, and he stands noticeably hunched to the side, left elbow pressed against his ribcage.

Red flag—he’s in pain.

I cross my fingers and pray for him to come down alive.

The idea that Levi could lose the round decreases my interest in the search for Jean, and instead I stand still, upper body relaxed and legs somehow tense, stiff, ready to break in a sprint to C exit if I see a fatal hit, because I would hate to see an idol fall.

The dreaded hit comes in the form of a knee strike that paints his complexion crimson. Foxtrot’s steel grip doesn’t give much space for movement, so all Levi can return is a jab that seems to target the balls and makes his opponent bend in pain. I would giggle if I weren't fearing for Levi's life.

They pull off of each other, quivering, muscles twitching in short spasms, glistening with sweat, fists morbidly deformed by the grotesque amount of blood and messy bandages coming undone. Levi tries tucking his wrap back around his knuckles and wrists. Fox doesn’t. I watch his left leg shake and his heel go up and down, and the light cast on his vibrating body creates a sight worth paying for. I can see his ribcage expand and count every single rib when he inhales—he is a large man, far out of Levi’s weight group, so this doesn’t seem a fair match—but Levi’s confidence tells me this certainly isn’t their maiden voyage.

My eyes travel to Levi, and my stomach sinks at the realization that he is staring straight back at me.

_An impromptu sign from God. An angel has been sent on Earth to spit out a bloody mess of his own organs and fight for eye contact with a mere teenage mortal who’s lost his sweatshirt, and just a second ago, soul as well._

For a split moment I think he might’ve remembered me from the short incident upstairs, while smoking. I know that the lighting gives no merit, and that the overall conversation could’ve been undoubtedly very impersonal—and _God_, I’m a cretin, there’s no chance, but come on, _please, he remembers me._

His face gives off mixed emotion. From the way his fists lower I pick up the sign that he might’ve indeed recalled me, my face or bare torso I can’t exactly flaunt with all these bruises and ugly scratches.

And I... Yes, Ares really does look like an angel. Pristine—even with streams of blood trickling down his chin and lower on his damp chest.

The excitement my body charges over this short exchange of looks is crammed to the floor along with my aching heart the second Foxtrot uses the opportunity and locks Levi’s throat with his arm. I _scream _for the first time this night, feeling ice-cold adrenaline flush through my body. I would’ve _jammed _through the front row of fighters just to get on the ring and _rip __Foxtrot apart. _It fucks me up me greatly that I’m stuck down here, only able to watch my time-honored fighter grappling his way to a bloody mess of a victory, or a lethal cut of a fall.

I then realize and prove my thesis: Levi is the lone wolf of the pack. He’s the leader, and he comes in a single-set. He’s used to working alone. 

_And the center of this man’s attention is a very bad place to be._


	3. The Come Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry 4 late and also mistakes will fix when i fix my sleep schedule so never
> 
> find me as [@gazastripping](https://gazastripping.tumblr.com) on tumblr and and [@batorija](https://instagram.com/batorija) on ig! 
> 
> here is the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1UTX7AEIz4vkjOmey16ugx?si=zz6hQpPxTOizH75GymTyfQ).

** EREN **

Three in the morning. Jean and I drag our sore legs towards his and Marco’s apartment.

I’d found Jean shortly after Foxtrot put Levi down. Together we watched the fight come to a controversial end. I’m still thinking about the referee who had no qualms about the ignored taps, deadly locks, or the fact that Ares was being brutally suffocated. Not that I can do much about it now, or could do then—I just think it sucks in a very deep and grandiose way.

“Okay, so, just like I told you, they have their own meticulous system. And the outcome of tonight is that the underground community now knows that Ares _can _be stepped on,” Jean explains, actively gesturing. “He’s only been outranked in the somewhat early stages of his career, but never this late. Now the entire hierarchy shifts, and Foxtrot takes his place on top. It’s like a food chain. Eat or get eaten. And _boy _did someone get ate.”

“I don’t buy it.” I yawn. “It’s just one fight. Ares is more skilled in combat. Just because Foxtrot is a bigger guy doesn’t automatically make him better.”

“Eren, this is the one time that you have to think deeper. It’s a _revolution_. The fighters will start picking sides and the community will disintegrate. _Au revoir, _Ares.” Jean lands a dramatic salute. “We now bow to Foxtrot, the dance of the century.”

“You’re dumb. Did you pay attention to any of his fights before Foxtrot?” I ask. “He has gone through good training. And while it’s unfair for people like him to participate in the first place, it’s also…pretty fair, I think.”

“I agree. Partly.” A round of coughs. “Oh my god, I can’t find my goddamn cigarettes.”

“Did you tell Marco we’re coming?”

“No, but he’ll be up. He’s got work in—“ Jean checks his phone. “Wow. Oops. Like, three hours.”

I find Jean’s twenty-year-old cousin quite hot and very fuckable. But because no one wants to ruin their lease agreement, I just don’t bring it up.

“D’you meet anyone new?” I ask to fill the sudden silence.

“Not really. You?”

“An Annie. Super brief. Probably won’t see her ever again, but it was nice while it lasted.”

“Any _boy?”_

Tease. “I met Ares. Like—like, up close, in person.”

He lights his clove. “Come up with something better.”

“Dude, _right _before he went on ring with Foxtrot—he was out, he was smoking. We shared a cig and had a ten minute chat—it was literally ten minutes, down to the second. I swear on everything I own.”

Jean throws his head back. “Wow, you ever, like, hear yourself?”

I scoff. “Fighters are just people.”

“They don’t even smoke in the back. They don’t even _smoke_.”

“Well, Ares does.” I raise my chin. “And he told me his name, too.”

“Oh, I bet he did.”

“It’s Levi.”

“Sure is.”

When we arrive at their apartment, I head to the balcony with a cup of green tea. I left Jean in the kitchen with corner store sushi to have some time with myself.

Levi lost because of me, and I am completely convinced of it. He would’ve figured a way to take hold on Fox if he wouldn’t have gotten distracted. Even worse—by _me_. I ruin the fucker’s game. I ruined his smoke break, then—his match, now—his reputation. Thinking about this is very unsettling. I think, if he weren’t as kind of a soul as I _hope _he is, that he would simply kill me for it.

There is a positive: he looked at me. We talked. We shared that cursed fucking cigarette; that has to be a sign. I mean, from a sexually dubious boy’s eyes, Levi is idiotically, _ridiculously _attractive, but this isn’t the time I could sport the meekest of chances. These kinds of complicated authority systems are strict in their masculinity norms—although I’m gonna come out and say right away that Fight Club was a novel with far too many homosexual implications, and Tyler Durden portrayed by Brad Pitt was one of my many sexual awakenings.

The balcony door behind me clicks.

“Are you tired?” Jean’s droopy voice. I watch him walk around the hard couch and plop down next to me, our shoulders harshly brushing. “_I _fucking am.”

“Same.”

“Do you feel seventeen?”

“No.”

“Not even a bit?”

I turn to him and smile. “Just hornier.”

Jean lights one up. Then he makes himself more comfortable on the couch, leaning into me, and stares out into the pale orange sky over the rails.

“Do you think this is going to last forever?” Jean murmurs. “Med school, engineers, IT specs. You think doing this stuff would make you a better son? My dad thinks so, but I think he can stick it up his ass.”

He is so real. With Jean, it’s like therapy. We provide the shallow comfort that only a teenager can bring to another. Jean is one of the most intrinsic people I know. To be frank, that is a big word, and I don’t know what it means. I heard it in a movie. But I think he is that.

“We are good people,” I whisper. “We’re better than a lot of sons out there. By a hunch. We just don’t have a lot of money, and…we can’t play golf.”

“I think that I could probably play golf just fine, had I the chance.”

“If I’m ever rich, I’ll take you to a golf court.”

Jean scoffs. “Okay. What is your ‘if Jean were rich’ wish?”

“Not to rely on meat as my main source of protein? I wanna stop eating meat.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” he says. “Out of all the things you could have, you choose to have even less.”

** LEVI **

Failure, in itself, isn’t the worst. Having nothing to bear your wounds for is.

It’s a pleasant but dangerous truth that I’m not used to losing. As pretentious and big-headed as it might sound, it is a fact, it’s in the figures—and abusing your long-prized pattern of victories leads to a subtle and just as cancerous sense of safety. You feel like no one can take your stead, but along with it spend days knowing that no one has been Top Dog forever.

I’ll get over it. My ego needs far more damage for my ground to shake. But the aftermath of a lost fight and the panic of being alone and physically hurt gets overwhelming fairly quickly. I’m not a champion; there’s no parent to encourage me, no coach to explain how I’ll make up for my defeat in the following fight, no lover to assure me they still love me for who I am. I have no one when I come home.

Pitiful loneliness. I deserve it.

This is what I wanted. What I worked for. What I deserve.

The night is deep and cold. The hall unclogs minute after minute.

I think I’m not a fighter anymore. I don’t get to spar as much as would be necessary, and a coach never plays. The only good news is that I haven’t gotten bad, easy to beat or rusty in any way; Zeke has simply become better.

With a sharp knock on the door, Erwin emerges from the hall.

“How are you?” He asks with the polite, detached tone of a professional; a doctor, a psychiatrist, a reporter.

I want to just laugh, but I have learned to behave around Erwin. No matter the time or situation, the only way out is to calm down and look him in the eye. So I turn, just enough to reveal my profile. Erwin looks down on me with the weight of the world and the worry of a mother. He has seen me in a condition worse than right now. He has seen me in war. This is not new.

I itch for my self-defensive irony, but choose honesty in all its ugliness. He always deserves the honest answer. “Pretty bummed.” _I think I need sleep_, I almost add, but my face speaks for itself. “Could I ask you to…”

“Yes.” Erwin nods to accept the favor itself, considering the nature of it futile and unnecessary. “Give me the keys.”

The place, protected and sealed during these events, is a ghost ship at night when the lights have been turned off and all the people have left. It reminds me of the underside of a bridge with its fires and odd shadows dancing among orange shades, projected on old stonewalls and concrete pillars. Every sound reverberates and bounces off the walls, offering a sense of liveliness and simultaneous death you can rarely find anywhere else. I doubt this kind of place _needs_to be locked at night.

I hand the keys to Erwin and we walk outside the old kitchen, my torn sport bag thrown over his relaxed shoulder. I didn’t ask for help and he didn’t force me to lean on him either. He very well knows my boundaries.

I drive a dented black 1975 Chevy, which is more attractive than practical. Like most old cars. But it has its charm; old cars have that strange sense of belonging that makes you feel like they’re a long-time friend.

Erwin gets in the driver seat and I ease myself into the passenger, trying not to arouse pain in my body. It is tired to the core; the kind of pain that would normally require a trip to the hospital. “Just to be sure,” Erwin would always say. But I never do, and neither do the others, because we don’t consider it useful or good for the general public. People like us don’t frequent hospitals. We do this to ourselves. There are people who need real help.

I think I might have broken something, but I’m not exactly able to tell where it hurts. It irradiates.

Not a good sign.

Erwin interrupts my meditative thinking by turning the engine on. “You want me to stay the night?”

I roll my window down with a gloomy stare. I hate that Erwin knows my shit. I think he already knew he’d have to drive me home; it’s like he’d sensed the upcoming defeat before I jumped on ring. But, likewise, he also most certainly knew that I would never have listened to him, so he let me go and fuck this whole thing up.

“Not tonight,” I say.

I want to scratch the back of my neck. As I lift my arm, a sharp pain wakes my shoulder and I leave the idea.

My gym serves as my apartment. It’s all about frugality—I don’t have to waste time on commute. I don’t pay two rents. ETA: 0 minutes, every day. I have nowhere else to go.

Erwin drops me off. Despite declining his offer before, I invite him to stay the night to avoid the whole car inconvenience, but he has already called a cab.

“Get some sleep,” he says, one foot inside the car.

No. I’m stubborn and deeply hurt. With a wave of the hand, I tell him to go. I thought it would serve as a sign, but he stays there, watching me. Eventually, the silence, although wonderfully relieving, weighs down on me.

“What is it?” He asks, silent like the night.

“I genuinely think it’s that I fucked up,” I finally say. “And I think… God, I think it’s going to show soon.”

I don’t know what I’m talking about. Saying it out loud is going to make it real. I don’t want this to happen.

“No one is going to touch you,” Erwin says. “You have earned your immunity.”

“That’s what you think.”

“I left cigarettes in your hoodie. Go to bed. Please.”

I watch him drive off, leaning against the garage door. When his cab takes the turn, I get the cigarettes and light one, soaking up the velvet air underneath a flickering lamppost.

_Eren_. There is something unspoken and odd about him. I have had fanboys; but he is not such. In the quiet of the night, I find myself wishing he hadn’t rooted for me. If he had, I’d probably whacked his birthday.

I don’t like how attentive I have been. Maybe that is the thing he does—pries his way into your head like a parasite, with nothing to offer in return. 

* * *

It always starts this way. The square of light on my face attacks me in its awfully aggressive morning nature. And each day, I think to myself: buy the fucking window blinds. And each day, I just don’t. I don’t know why I don’t. Maybe it’s executive dysfunction.

I check my mobility by trying to hide my eyes from the sunlight and conclude that my shoulder is clearly dislocated.

Another two hours before the first class. I can manage a good stretch beforehand and hope that some sense of arm movement can be compromised. Class at 7 PM. I don’t mind working late and I don’t mind working early either—but today is a day when I’m fully convinced that society doesn’t need me that much. I wish I could say it’s because of my hurt body, but I am already feeling better. Experience. My carcass knows how to quicken the healing process. It starts to recognize the pain, learns to take care of it faster, better, to be in fine shape for the next good beating.

Asides from the sound of cars driving by, or the rumble of neighbor garages being unlocked and lifted, it is infinitely silent. There are no voices, people don’t talk on the street, children don’t laugh. There is no human sound to make me feel less alone.

I sit up on my mattress, sheets wrapped tight around my legs, and vigorously rub my face. The sting in my muscles can’t be ignored.

It comes down to the point where I ask myself if the kids I teach would be able to tell. If they come up to me and ask why I had to be so awfully bad, I’d turn to them, and I’d look right into their eyes—and have nothing to say. Because that’s the only answer I have: nothing. I don’t know. I wasn’t supposed to lose. There’s always the risk to, but it shouldn’t have happened. The guilt seeps into my veins and corrupts every thought into a self-loathing reflex.

There is no dignity in losing a fight I had all the means to win. No grace in falling without anyone to blame. Our worth isn’t permanent, nor is it carved in our skin.

I think that’s why I disliked the title I was given. Ares, the god of war, the ring pseudonym I adopted. I think it chose me rather than the contrary. I would never go for something so grim.

I’ve been extrapolating. Zeke is neither the devil, nor a king. If anything, I think he is simply becoming the new Ares a second at a time, humbling me, offering me to step down from the throne before the day comes when I am pushed.

* * *

“Don’t you know?”

I look up. “Know what?”

“About the rookie meeting.”

“I do.”

“And they say—”

“What?” I force out.

“That you’ll be there. You gonna fight?”

I have been haunted by the fear of losing again for days now, and my students won’t stop looking worried. I hate this, people thinking I’m over; thinking that Zeke is game. I’m not over. And Zeke is not fucking game.

“I might.”

“Will you sign someone?”

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“…sorry,” the kid says. “It was only three.”

“You’re good.”

This is idiotically unfortunate. I have an upcoming apparition on a recruit night. Okay—fine. Great. I’m not sure I still have the hearts on my side.

“Do you have a preference?” He asks.

“There is great competition among the girls.”

“Oh—is there any chance the fights will be mixed?”

“Kid, I don’t think making bets in advance is a good idea.”

Rookie bets are only words. There is no money involved, so I feel obligated to remind first-timers that a fighter shouldn’t be judged by his appearance, height or the number of fights they’ve had. If that had been the case, I wouldn’t have beaten Rex the tank. Being smaller leaves you wanting fair judgment.

One’s debut is the worst, but it’s the only way to make a name. You take a lot of beating before it catches on.

The host has contacted a few bigger names of the underground to open the competition, which seems like a fine strategy, given few people care about the newbies. The filter step—waiting for the good ones to join in, to show them that this is worth the watch.

I’m preparing equipment for the upcoming class. The younger adepts are the most talkative, and they don’t seem to consider me a quiet person. Each time one of them speaks to me, I feel surprised. With the public rumors of my past, not everyone dares to just come up and talk.

“I think I should give it a go,” the kid says. “It’s only fifty to sign up, and I got about a hundred for my birthday.”

I straighten and tap the dust off my gym shorts. My tank top sticks to my sweaty back and itches. “Maybe. Don’t think about it too much. Now, get to work. Thirty pushups. Left arm.”

He smiles wider than I would ever want him to and heads over to the mats. I watch him from the doorway, heat pooling in my stomach—because I know that this boy wouldn’t make it. But how can you tell someone they don’t have the potential to fight? How do you explain to an enthusiastic kid that he clearly does not possess the mental capacity of survival?

I swallow the grim feeling and turn away. When I close the door of my office, I can still hear the distinct noise of the kid doing his push-ups.

* * *

Lying on my mattress, I stare at the white ceiling. This is all I need at the end of the day: my mattress and my white ceiling. I’ve achieved such level of anti-materialism through years of training. Sometimes I think that the next step should be getting rid of the ceiling.

I can’t sleep. It’s cold and it’s full moon.

Erwin calls in the afternoon to make sure that I’m doing good and that I’ve had at least one meal.

"Coffee is a meal," I say.

"No, it’s not," he says.

I drop the call.

I call him back half an hour later to let him know I’ve had a jar of olives for dinner and that any input would be appreciated.

We sit in front of the gym, sun setting above the industrial buildings, eating pad thai.

“Does it still hurt?” Erwin asks.

I can’t tell which part of my body he’s talking about, and he’s not looking at me either, so I figure he speaks of the whole package.

Bruises are hot, and I don’t care that this is the one time I can afford to show personal interests. They’re just fucking hot in my book, so I feel a weird sense of enjoyment when I have some, and I always have some. There is something wildly intriguing about the color and the way they spread onto the skin like paint stains. And bruises look pleasantly warm on Eren—they blend into his complexion naturally.

Something inside me combusts. I almost panic, thinking my organs are failing, but after some introspection, it’s just trying to alarm me for trying to associate this stranger with the current things in my life.

“I’m alive. Shit sure hurts,” I add after hesitating to, palming at my ribs.

He pushes my arm away the way a mother would slap her son’s hand whenever he bites his nails. “I didn’t want to talk about it to you, but you’re very fucking lucky.”

I am about to sarcastically add exactly how lucky I am, roll my eyes a furious amount and then go silent again, when he frowns and makes me not to.

“You’re lucky you made it out alive. It didn’t seem like the lambda fight up there.”

“Zeke has always been this way.”

“Who cares? It wasn’t fair.”

“Exactly—who _cares,” _I say.

After a long pause, his voice is visibly softer. “Is he going to be there tomorrow?”

I shrug. “I didn’t see his name on the list; unless he has decided to fuck me up again by signing last minute.”

“Sign up will be closed in a few days. Look out for him.”

“I’m not going to back down if he does come.”

“Has anyone made a comment on your bruises?” Erwin asks. “Your students, for one.”

I elbow him and he laughs.

“You know they don’t get to speak. I doubled warm-up to make sure they don’t,” I add. “I do think I whined too much when moving around.”

He, again, laughs at this. I especially hate that Erwin would have no problem keeping secure community support. Meanwhile I look like the diet-sized version of some ridiculously post-modern blockbuster Schwarzenegger, shadow-boxing as I insult the entire world. Still, here’s the point: I’m not ugly. I am not appalling. But people either escape my stare or fight for it, and neither is what I want to have.

Most people. There is one exception.

My insides rattle immediately.

Yeah, my body is not used to this yet. I should keep it that way.

** EREN **

I am _literally _going to punch a wall. Fuck yeah, poverty! Eat the rich!

I can’t sign a legal trainer and participate in illegal fights, so I have ever so brilliantly figured out a system where space for self-improvement is the main motif. Self-improvement immediately involves being around trained peers, trained peers narrows down to someone educated enough that they could train me, but unofficial enough not to ask for money. This absolutely, greatly, _grandiosely _sucks.

Once I get home from Jean’s apartment, I stay in all day and flip Google over searching for contacts regarding the underground community; all I need is a thread, a blog, a comment, videos, chat sites, anything that would give me a clue about the next tournament, a meet up, or just telephone numbers I could pester. After I realize that _nothing _of this exists and that none of the exmilitaries would just train me for sport, I decide that I want to become a janitor in the butchery basement under Mason’s Rackets. That means I could improve tactically, by observation, get used to the surroundings, infiltrate the community, explore the space. If my shift would actually start at four in the morning as Jean had claimed, I could get on ring and see if that’s comfortable for me. I could spar a little, train my roundhouse.

Obviously, after I’d blundered my way to Mason’s Rackets a few days after the tournament and managed to squeeze in the backyard of the building, the garage is locked and the place seems to be entirely shut down; there is no Morris, no face control, not even the slightest snare of an upbeat song. I hadn’t told Jean any of this grand idea of mine, but I do once I get over my disappointment and crash at his place.

What he tells me is even more depressing.

“My guy, first off—find Morris.” He gestures with a lit cigarette. “Second, janitors there aren’t the ones who push around carts full of disinfectant. A janitor down there is the person who moves bodies. Nobody trusts nobody, brother.”

I ask if there’s any way I could talk to Morris.

“His name isn’t even Morris most of the time.”

I ask if there’s any chance that I get to fight.

“Rookie tryouts every skipped week. Thursdays or Fridays, down at bar Nessie—the one by the lake.”

And thus I mark both Thursday and Friday on my phone’s calendar, and start counting the days.

We get involved in anti-social behavior because we’re bored, don’t have a place to go to, don’t have a satisfying family life, don’t have a future, don’t have a hobby, don’t like ourselves, don’t particularly like others, like to fight, like to hurt, like to feel at least something. It’s worse if you relate to all of the above. That’s why street gangs are so appealing. Men are presumptive predators. We’re leaving teaching in droves. We are a generation of apprentices without masters, and this is a fistfight therapy that everyone can afford.

It’s been days since I last saw Levi fight. Most of his moves have faded from my memory, and I can barely recall what he looks like, asides the curling hair and soft chest, but he is still carved vivid in my memory as a war god. So when I drag my beaten ass home that one unlucky Thursday night, after failing to find anything at bar Nessie and settling for a beating with Jean, lip chewed up and bleeding, the first thing I type in Google is a string of complete nonsense.

_“underground fighting nyc club masons rackets”_

What that show up are tennis racket ads and journalists booing underground fighting.

_“illegal fight nyc levi”_

Nothing.

_“nyc ares illegal”_

Nothing. I take a deep breath and suck at my bleeding lip to calm down.

_“alpha ares fight”_

A/B/O fetish blogs.

_“nyc levi alpha heel hook choke”_

At my most anticipated search, the browser freezes and pops a “Not Responding” log at the top of the screen. After mindlessly clicking around, I kneel down to restart the router and head to the bathroom to rinse my bleeding mouth.

When I come back and sit down, I find that my computer has shut down.

* * *

“Eren. Is. Gonna. Fight,” Jean pecks, shuffling from foot to foot at every word.

“We’re heading to Nessie’s in about an hour. Boy’s holding pipe dreams of landing a deal with the MMA gods, Marc! He’s about to fucking _do_it!”

Marco is not buying it, but the bragging is worth every second.

“I said, I just want to have someone train me,” I correct.

“You’re not even eighteen,” Marco says and turns to Jean. “Did he get Morris?”

“Eren, tell him.”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah. I didn’t…exactly _get _Morris, but I did find some people. Maybe they’ll sign me after getting to see me.”

“What are ‘some people’?”

“Ares,” I say.

To quench Marco’s bloodless interest, Jean adds: “The big ones are coming in for the grand opening, cuz. ”

“You guys…” Marco rubs his face and sighs. “Just… Can you wear bandages and teeth guards? Girls always bind up.”

“Girls have common sense,” I say.

“If girls had any common sense, they wouldn’t sign up for a no safety standard fight,” Jean says.

“I don’t think it’s predominantly the fault of one’s gender—you are all idiots,” Marco replies.

“Marc, you are too good,” I whisper.

Jean throws his pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. “We don’t _fuck _with ringside doctors, medical exams or blood tests. Weight classes and equipment are randomized and the rules are arbitrary. You do know you have the chance to fight with a chick, right?”

I wince.

“Yeah,” Jean says. “Oh man, I am _so _busting your ass if you lose to a girl.”

“Shut up. Do they bet on rookie fights?” I ask.

“No,” Marco answers.

“Why?”

“Why would you bet on something like that?”

My lip jerks. “Isn’t it bloody and exciting? Like, the whole ‘fresh blood’ hype?”

Jean starts laughing. “The joke is that rookie fights are shit, Eren.” Jean wipes at the corners of his mouth. “They only last longer than two minutes if someone is suicidal like you; get their soul beaten out of them and never come back.”

_Content is king and the mode of delivery is irrelevant, _I think. “Is this worth it?” I whisper in my surrender.

“Never,” Marco says.

“God—I’m just going to die, and you two are gonna let me.”

Jean walks around the hard couch I’m sitting on and plops down next to me. Foot hooked behind his knee, he wraps an arm around my neck and takes my hollow cheek with his free hand. “Please, for the love of god, _die,” _he says. “They remember the dead ones.”

After having light dinner with Marco, we take a bus down to the lake and are now leaning against a ticketed car parked down the street from Nessie’s. The street is beginning to grow crowded with people ranging from barely fifteen to over sixty years old.

“Barrel-chested five-foot-eleven Jean is smoking a cigarette, and the inch-shorter, broad-shouldered Eren is chewing mint gum,” Jean narrates, flicking ash from his cigarette.

“Stop,” I say.

The three-story brownstone on Craig Street was built around two decades ago. The door, the windowsills, and the two-step stoop are the originals. Though the old coat of brown paint is peeling, the appointments are handsome in their timeworn way. Because the building is so close to the shifting grounds by the lake, floors have buckled slightly and many of the unpainted bricks have shifted. Their movement creates gently waving, symmetrical lines across the building’s façade. The mortar has been refilled where it has cracked and fallen out.

The bar is entwined with neon lights, as are most buildings on the street. There is no terrace or backyard—the action appears to be on the inside.

“The woman who owns Nessie,” Jean resumes, “Hanji, she takes great care to avoid too much attention. Used to text fighters just a few days before these events with the time and location. Now that there is a reliable and consistent commune, they spread the word around carefully.”

I spit my gum on the pavement. “If I die…”

“Did you tell your mom where we’re heading?”

“…that we’re going camping.”

“In April?” Jean pauses. “If you don’t die here, she’s going to kill you. What a way to go.”

When I notice a group of boys with gloves tied around their necks, I know that it is our cue to get moving. At the entrance I notice a bulletin board with several posters, ripped, torn telephone numbers, flyers and notices. A wide, pale pink flyer covers a third of the entire board. It says:

**BRING ON THE CARNAGE! JOIN THE TEAM! WINNER LIFTS UP TO $200 PER TOURNAMENT! GUARANTEED PAYMENT!**

**THIS FRIDAY—ALL EVENTS START AT 8 PM BAR NESSIE!**

**NO DRINKS x NO PETS x NO DRUGS x NO FOOD**

**—FOXTROT—**

“That’s so tacky.” I scowl.

“You don’t like him because he beat Ares like JFK beat up Marilyn’s pussy.”

“You’re…the worst.”

The bar, once we get inside, is surprisingly small. It is lit by recessed fluorescent lights and neon curving around the bartender’s figure, and the only furniture are three forest green leather couches by the walls, stool-sized tables and old chairs. The bartender’s workplace is a dark slab of wood resting on several stone columns, walls—chalked, dusty, floor—a mix between wood and tiles.

“This place smells weird.” He rises on his toes to see above everyone’s heads. “They’re signing up. You’ll have to get in there.”

I jump to see the two doors. “What do I tell them?”

“It doesn’t really matter, I think. You can fake it if you want to.” Jean pushes me in the line and stands behind a tall guy himself. “See you on the other side.”

Even though I lathered myself in Marco’s deodorant to look less like sweaty shit on ring, I can already feel dampness build up in every crease. The line shrinks too quickly. I lose sight of Jean completely. Next to the door that is inevitably closing in stands a man in his thirties. He has a black beret and odd glasses.

“Name?” I hear him ask the boy in front of me.

“Michael.”

“Last name?”

“Dunmow.”

“Mind spelling that?”

I listen to Michael trying to spell his own last name several times in a row.

“Alright, Michael, I’ll need your age, stage name, and, this part is optional, but if you want to—“

My stomach drops. I need to have a _stage name? _Memories of the senior tournament begin to resurface, and I think of every nickname I heard back then. Ares. Foxtrot. Rex. Yankee, Charlie, Outlaw Bandit, Onyx, Rosetta…

…neither of which would fit me in any way. And I don’t think taking someone’s title would do me any good in the long run.

I start mixing various words and song titles in my head, but Michael passes through the door, and it is my turn now.

I walk up to the guy with the beret.

“Got a name?” He asks.

“Eren.”

“Stage name?”

“Uh…”

“Don’t have one yet? Survive and give it a week post-brawl. It’s gonna come up.”

I stutter out my last name and spell it before he even manages to ask.

“Age?”

“Eighteen,” I lie.

“So you don’t got a stage name?”

“…no.”

“Alright, then. Best of luck.” He tilts his head towards the door I proceed to walk through.

Faced with a short hallway and another door, this time closed, I feel like I can breathe for a second. This door has a note that says:

**NO SHIRTS**

**NO SHOES**

**CLOSE THE DOOR **

I tug my hoodie off along with the t-shirt.

The room I then enter is hot, spaceless, it smells like sweat and vomit. There are benches and lockers with no locks, and every free space is stuffed with small wraps of clothing. I figure this is where I leave my belongings. I left my money with Jean and my phone back home, so I tuck just my clothes in the tightest little gap I can find and look around again.

There are currently at least, if not more, thirty people differing in age, height, body type, gender and race that are in line to pass yet another face control door. I head through with no issue and find Jean leaning against a wall.

“Zoe scheduled seven bouts for tonight’s event, but a few fighters are no-shows and were asked to sign injury waivers—so instead there are only four major fights before you go on ring,” Jean patters. “This is all very exciting.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask.

“I heard Ares is here,” he says. “So maybe you can actually get signed.”

_“What?” _I thickly pronounce. “He would attend an event like this?”

“After losing to Foxtrot, anyone would. He has to up his game somehow. I heard Fox is gonna be here as well. Wow, speak of the devil.” Jean points across the large room.

I follow his index and find myself staring straight at Levi.

He looks different clothed. Not exactly…better or worse, but I have already programmed him into my head shirtless. Quite glad that he’s not looking back at me, as it would probably breed another painful situation—but wishing nothing more than his attention.

The only reason I came today was to get the recognition. To prove that I have something in me. I didn’t expect him to be here, only hoped for someone to recommend me, pass my name on, until he were reached by a mere myth. Levi coming in to see the fights in person is a hard impact on my blooming ego.

I know he can train me. This ex-marine owns a gym thirty minutes away from my apartment and specializes in MMA. Trains everyone. Very cheap, too. So if he refuses to teach me, it needs a much better reason than “we’re full”.

** LEVI **

“Han, this shirt rule is bullshit.”

“Maybe. You don’t get to decide. I do.” Hanji eyes at my bust. “I love a pretty sight.”

Took me weeks to get to know her, and I’ve come to the conclusion I like her better with the glasses on. It’s part of the character, if you may.

We are at the bar and I can already feel the weight in the air. I’ve attended rookie nights before, but tonight I have been assigned a task I usually am not—I have to hold a demo and open the tournament by sparring with fighters my level. Like a beta version.

Only when Hanji mentions Foxtrot being here, I understand that we won’t fight each other. I am, somehow, very glad. My shoulder still hurts.

Being high rank at my age is quite a weight to carry, but the pressure that “the underground doesn’t forgive” only adds to it. When you’re out, you’re out for good. Up to date, there haven’t been shocking or lasting comebacks. I await the inevitable day I am declared retired.

Younger fighters don’t have careers outside of these dogfights. They are like race horses, living off money others have bet on them. I was just like that. If greed, drugs and power don’t eat a fighter up, they gain some sort of clarity about right after they turn 25, and begin to work a daytime job to ensure a standard life in the case of getting kicked out of the commune. Sometimes the crowd decides for us. Sometimes you just die.

I definitely still have enough power. I don’t know why I doubted it a few days ago. I can feel it when I enter a room. My past precedes me—for the first time in my life, I am thankful for it. Maybe the respect some have for me is the only reason I am still part of the game.

In the corner of the room, passively participating in a conversation, stands a blonde with her arms crossed. Wearing a sports bra. She doesn’t seem excessively strong or tall, but not appearing as a powerful figure is good. Sometimes you’re able to tell who’s got it with a bit of observation. The way she stands, the way she looks around while being spoken to, becoming hyperaware of her surroundings, seizing, judging, analyzing with patience I could call mine—I read her like a children’s book.

“Anything of interest?” Han elbows me.

I’m not here to attract the public. The big names are here to see the next generation. Some of them come to harvest apprentices.

God, I have much better things to do. Nothing, for one.

“The general mass is disappointing,” I say. “That blonde over there is going to lift a sponsorship.”

Hanji turns around. “From you?”

“Han, I don’t have any money.”

“And you think she’s expensive?”

“Yes.”

“You know what,” Hanji begins, and I already know I’m not going to like what is about to follow. “You should get your hands on someone _before _the fights begin.”

“Oh, and what the fuck am I going to do with someone I haven’t seen fight?”

“You know who is worth the conversation, you fuck,” she says. “Don’t act stupid. The blonde is already on the radar.”

Han is right. Han is…often right. These nights aren’t really for the rookies; they’re for us. Senior fighters come here to assure themselves a living legacy. This is a stupidly egocentric concept.

Music plays from the speakers in every corner of the room deprived of any natural light or visible exit. West Coast rap hinting of the 90’s. Vibrant energy floats overhead, promising panic-infused adrenaline. Being trapped here makes the debutants feel like helpless animals. In such a confined space, it’s easy to make a rookie feel uneasy; the loud sound, the lack of space, the heat, the smell, the yelling.

Han and I are advancing through the crowd to get to the back of the room, where Erwin is waiting for us.

With shame, I recognize the nicotine itch I struggle to ease before these events. “How much time do we have?” I force out.

“Not enough for a cigarette.” Hanji turns. “With how beaten up you are, you could save _some _or your vital organs, don’t you think?”

I shake my head. She notices that I am too tense.

“Relax, Lee,” Han says. “They all love you to the bone.”

I fake a reassuring smile and pull off my boots.

I hope she is also right this time.

* * *

“Ultimately, because I am not a man of big words, I will say that I don’t know why any of you would do this,” I say, patting the top rope of the ring. “You have to be out of your mind to voluntarily set sail to death.”

The older people laugh. Like a streetlight in the corner of my eye, I feel _her _presence. The blonde is still here. In the far back of the room, barely interested, but listening despite that. She is going to fight well, because she doesn’t give a shit. Most people here need their kick to climb on ring. This is sport to her. This is an amusement park.

“Sadists can leave. Masochists should’ve already left. Howell, this is for you.” I lift an accusing finger Howell’s way. He looks up at me with a wide smile. The guy loves to get wrecked. “Dope sniffers, blood addicts, teenagers who lack mass attention, here’s the door.”

I point at the door, but the wrong one, and hear Han’s blurry voice over the buzz of the people. I don’t need to understand what she said to know that she is making fun of me.

“And fuck you,” I say, received by a wave of shy laughter. “Now, I know none of these empty restrictions are going to stop the sadists, masochists, dope sniffers, blood addicts and teenagers lacking attention from participating, but I am obligated to say it. There’s more—and these following premonitions you _do _have to obey. No shirt, no gender restriction, no weight class. If you think that’s unfair, everything is. You will all be treated as equal, and you will soon learn that equality is a desire that is situational and selective. Women have the right to kill you, just as you have the right to kill a woman, but if cultivated misogyny is observed by the host, you will be banned.”

Some move around, uneasy. I can feel the less motivated lose sight of their initial goal each passing second. That’s when you know who is here to fight, and who is here because they didn’t want to stay at home on a Friday night.

I resume. “Tonight you’ll have the pleasure to see the top shelf fight. Take it as a welcome drink. An entrée.” My hand vaguely points towards the group of senior fighters. “Here you have Ruthless. Rush. Onyx. Order 66.”

The list goes on for a needlessly long time. With every name, people clap and look around, searching for the fighters.

“And finally, Foxtrot has given us the pleasure,” I say. It’s only healthy to put on a good show sometimes. I am such a bitch, aren’t I? I can easily imagine Erwin’s deep stare; that’s when he prays for me to remain calm. And I do. “Always remember—there is no fault in losing a fair fight.”

The crowd cheers and cheers, and cheers, and I grind my teeth so hard I can feel my jaw tremble. We stare each other down about as long as the clapping lasts. I don’t know who is just making noise for Zeke, and who was actually there during our last fight.

“Now, before the event begins, I will invite one of my colleagues to come on ring and be my partner. I have been kindly asked to do a demonstration of moves all of you should know by the time you come up here.”

The older fighters seize each other, trying to decide who would be best fit. Chuckling, Rush shakes his head and straightens.

“Oh, Rush, brother!” I lift my arms up. “Rush, here, is known to make his opponent K.O. in less than is needed to have a round.”

People back away to give him space. He gets through and hauls himself up on ring.

“If you want to leave your opponent with great damage and get to the final rounds, here is a way to end the fight as quickly as it began,” I continue.

Rush and I playfully greet each other. One of the more tolerable long-timers. He is taller, but not much broader; Rush’s whole technique lies in the main weakness of his opponent. He, in fact, rarely leaves the opportunity to tap out—the K.O. is immediate.

We both adopt the first stance, fists protecting the torso. This is not a real fight, so none of us has to surprise the other. Instead we shuffle around each other for a while, analyzing our postures and habits. I might have felt tense otherwise, but I was the one to initiate this—I have never fought Rush, is the thing.

The beginning of a fight is all about intimidation and observation. Someone who thinks they’ve already won has neglected one of these two. Body language is incredibly important.

I hear Hanji wildly cheer something just as wildly indecent, to which she receives a fair amount of laughter.

We don’t want injury here, which means the first to move is the better of both dogs of our show: me. I flinch forward to distract him, which he mistakes for an attack. I back off and yank his neck with my arm. With my left leg, I get the ankle that is closest to me, and with the slight misbalance the motion causes, I force him to fall. He flies over my shoulder and lands on his back. The sound of it reverberates.

“Now that I have Rush on the ground,” I say, visualizing my words with my movements, “knee blocking his legs, elbow holding his arms—let’s talk about the finale. Once you’re down here, you have infinite options to make your opponent tap out. Use your imagination.”

We get up and part, taking the initial position.

I wipe my forehead. “Stick to a technique that is flexible and it should be enough to stop or kill your opponent. This makes for relatively short tournaments, which I don’t particularly like; it’s boring.”

Rush smiles. “Yup.”

“If I so desired to take Rush out in one hit, I could target three spots. The chin, with an uppercut, the jaw—get it right below the ear, or right _at _the ear to cause a whiplash effect. A hook would be _perf _for that.” With each named option, I illustrate my words in slow motion. “Or—you can kick the temple.”

I twist my hips and lift my leg up, letting it hang in the air an inch away from Rush’s temple, fists close to my chest to keep balance.

“However…” I retract and straighten. “Fuck up your high kick, and you have given your opponent not only the chance to dodge it, but to grab your leg. Potentially sad outcome—so only do this if you have faith your footwork.”

Rush and I are dripping wet, and this is not even a fight.

He turns to the crowd. “Understand that we don’t want you to die too soon.”

“Oh, yeah,” I add. “This is bad advertising.”

Rush, by Hanji’s notion, knows that we as a pair have nothing else to offer. He shakes my hand and slips off the platform without other cue.

“Now, the fun part.” I start circling around ring. “I am going to need one of you to get up here and demonstrate that submission technique in real time.”

Silence swallows the entire hall. I take my time and see the room over.

I am immediately drawn to the blonde…but I hesitate. She would make too good of a counterpart. She is too focused. She is…far too good for this, too ready. I need someone who doesn’t have any technique. Someone who is driven by anger, someone who the rest of these kids could relate to.

My eyes fly over a group of five—and I see him. Right next to them, _he’s _here, standing all stupid and impressed, with a sheet-pale face and red cheeks that look worrying on his tan body. Maybe he wants to corner me in the backyard to share another cigarette. But when his eyes meet mine, I realize that I would much rather wish for the backyard cigarette.

He is not wearing a shirt.

He is going to fight.

_Why?_

A sharp flash runs through my body, and I stop circling. I try to convince myself that this is a good idea.

He frowns—and then smiles. But it is so slight that I could’ve also imagined it.

Fine. Fine. _Fine._

“You.”

He turns around to check. The blond guy on his right looks more shocked than he does. It only happens to the rest of them, is that what you thought?

His name finally comes to me; I will pat myself on the back for this later. “Eren—right?”

Most of them don’t catch it, but from the way he looks back at me, he definitely has. Eren doesn’t react otherwise, but I know I remember it right. I will never forget the misstep that he caused. It paid a high price.

For a second I think that he will just head to the door. But to my joy, he tenses and straightens.

Eren’s friend pats his shoulder before he forces his way through the crowd. People stare as he brushes past. I think they might be praying for him. He is a ring virgin. Very cute. Also, rather sad.

He grabs at the lowest rope to slip himself through the holes. Unsettled, but clearly filled with pride, Eren straightens. Fuck, I don’t remember him being this tall.

Yeah—I shouldn’t have done this.

“You wrapped your knuckles,” I silently point out. “Good job. Don’t look the type to listen.”

“All I do is listen,” Eren says.

“Oh, look at you.”

“Teach me. Please.” It sounds merely like a hiss, but I hear it, and I read it from his lips.

This is a private conversation observed by nearly two hundred people.

“Fine. Put me down,” I say, “and I’ll teach you.”

A gleam of apprehension flashes in his eyes, and the animosity instantly dies. He won’t win. He is already too angry. Not because of me—because of the world. It’s sad that the angriest end up in a mare of blood.

His arms and shoulders tense. Eren fights my collected stare with completely unparalleled emotion.

I stretch out my hand. Unofficial fights rarely demand a greeting or any level of formality. Most fighters refuse a handshake, a nod, sometimes even eye contact; but Eren is only in the shallow, so I have the chance to produce an illusion of safety. Realistically, I want to shake him like a pepper tray. I want to scrub him raw and see what is so wildly wrong with him.

He looks surprised, but decides to reach out as well. I keep the handshake firm to let him know two things. One—I have the upper hand. Two—_you’ll be okay. _Both are lies, but one is truer than the other.

I can almost smell Eren, his sweat, feel his hormones go into overdrive, feel how he is beginning to understand the strange, masochistic addiction of the ring that makes one come back like a race horse after a bad drop. With nostalgic tenderness, I watch him. I don’t even remember my first time on the ring.

“On the off-chance—you have a name?” I ask.

“Well, I generously said nothing at the door.”

“Of course, you mongrel,” I say. “If you watched the demonstration, you should be able to execute it. But I won’t fake it. Force it onto me.”

Eren does not look sure about his abilities. At least he is hope-driven. “Star Wars” was all a hope-driven act. He may not even land one hit, but we both seem willing to try and let that happen. This fight, no matter the outcome, is going to be far more interesting than the one I could’ve had with the blonde girl; facing someone who knows their limits bores me. I want to feel the depth of someone who doesn’t know what they can do, who is willing to surprise themselves, and me with them.

“Okay, sure.” He doesn’t seem “okay”. “When do we start?”

“Never wait for the signal.” I grin and hold back the temptation to throw the first kick; it’d be so easy, _too _easy. It’s unnecessary pain. If I break him too quickly, I won’t get what I want. I pick up a light shuffle. “Defense,” I order—like I do in class.

Immediately, Eren lifts his fists to his face. The rest of his body looks tense. I can’t blame him, but that is a mistake. With the irregular comes and goes of his chest, it is easy to notice he doesn’t breathe right. He will go out of breath too soon, decreasing the volume of a potential attack.

_Hit me_, I think, but he is too scared, too impressed, too careful, too _everything_on the world. _Come on. Come on. Put me down_. _It’s your move._

He joins the shuffle. We rotate around the ring, trying to intimidate each other; had I been younger and less experienced, the way his eyes flash at me, it would have worked. Eren isn’t particularly buff, but the mass he has is more than enough if he uses it right.

The room is stuffy and the tension grows. A pearl of sweat rolls down his temple. Strands of hair are glued to his forehead, and he is desperate to be the one who makes the first move.

I test him, take a step forward to see his reaction, and he bends to the side, fists straight up and ready to launch back if I decide to get down to it. He has good habits—his form is in development, but going the right way. Not sure if his brawls have been centered around defense the way his body is marked; maybe all he’s searching for is to get battered and bruised… But it would be hypocritical for me to call him out on it.

Brave—Eren sees that I’m not hyper focused and takes the opportunity. He attempts an easy jab to the ankle, but fails to recognize that he hasn’t gotten rid of my upper body. I get out of his reach far too easily.

It’s the very beginning. He is petrified. We are testing the waters.

I patiently stare him down and hope that he senses my intentions are good.

The music is loud and violent, but the crowd has gone silent. They are attentive.

And then I notice it. Between the vacant stares and muted conversations, I recognize a hesitantly pronounced, vaguely spoken mention of “Mongrel”; people are already cheering for Eren, biting down on the one word I sent his way. It means he has the energy necessary on ring. Having the crowd on your side is often enough to win a fight. It’s far more safe to have this guarantee; Zeke strangling me wouldn’t have been much of a problem if people weren’t rooting for me in the first place.

I give an impulsive shoulder-level jab. Eren remembers to dodge, but it comes a second too late; my fist lands on the far end of his collarbone, which must have hurt more than I intended. He has good reflex, but indecent speed.

Now that physical contact has been established, the warm-up is over. Starting from here, just like with Rush, it’s a matter of seconds. Thoroughly disappointed, I fight back the recurring thought that I won’t be the one who is brought down. I almost _wish _for it to be me. _Just hit me. Remember the demo and get me in that lock._

But…he doesn’t. We move at the same time—with great regret, I grab his neck from above and kick his ankle with my foot. In a split second, Eren is down. His knee is bent from the drop, and he is heaving. Not sure if I made him angry, or if he’s angry at himself for not dodging the move. It could be both.

Our eyes meet. I look away. Now isn’t the time for sentiment; he’s going to see far worse opponents than me someday, and I’m already being too soft. Some who are watching are definitely able to tell.

I swiftly crawl over him and wrap my right arm around his neck, grabbing my own hand with my free one, making sure he is blocked in a tight, non-lethal headlock. My right hip pushes against the ground, and I have all the strength I need to keep him pinned down. His right arm is blocked under my weight.

If Eren had technique, he would know at least one way to escape the headlock, but he stays on the ground, soft and obedient, waiting for the next thing to follow—which would, if I added any more pressure, be passing out. If he doesn’t act right away, it’s over.

He stays still in my grip. I look down at him from our close distance and immediately want to look away: he is too intense. His eyes are saying too much. Sweat pearls on his nose, breath is hot against my wrist, his mouth hangs open, foamy saliva pooling at the corners of it. Eren convulses, attempting to get me off, and the sharp motion makes my sweat drop down on his cheek. This moment lasts for what feels a very, very long while.

I didn’t want this to end so quickly. I could let go—but what would that make me?

Eren’s palm lands on my waist. Currently a given soft spot, curved and ready to receive whatever manual attack he would attempt; a well placed hit, fingers to the ribs, even a knee kick, if he’s flexible enough. But he just puts his hand on me—almost shyly—and I feel the warmth of it as his nails dig down my skin, light enough for it not to bleed, hard enough for it to leave marks. The touch is almost intimate—as if it were a statement more than a truly necessary notion. It gives me goose bumps.

After a blatant second of hesitation, Eren taps. I let go right away.

I sit up. He stays on the ground. I offer him a hand and he takes it, our eyes meeting on his way up.

“You did well,” I say with a pat on his shoulder. “Self-defense for another day.”

“You’re giving me another day?” Eren breathlessly asks and wipes his upper lip.

I stare him down and say nothing. And just like that, I turn away, declaring the tournament open.

Erwin is by my side the second I land on the ground. I wipe sweat off my forehead and ignore the way he looks at me.

** EREN **

I feel robbed of something.

I stare straight at the reflection of my dripping face, lit by the cobalt blue light strips above the mirror. My eyelashes are trimmed with sweat and water, and my upper lip still lingers of salt when I lick it.

We sparred for barely thirty seconds. It was really over within a minute.

The stills frozen solid in my memory flash in front of my eyes even when I shut them. Aggressive, but distant; like it never truly happened. When he pointed over. Called my name. _Remembered _my name. Jean’s shocked shift next to me, the nudges from all around. The exact moment when my fingers brushed against the rough, coarse ropes, the sound of turnbuckles jingling. The hand he stretched. The tattoos I tried to understand within the few seconds in my favor. My shaking legs. I was already outside the bar in my head, I wanted to leave—but my body was slow with catching up. So I stood and looked at him: a merciless, chiseled figure baring his fists and peeling my consciousness away layer by layer, back to last year, back to five years away, back to when I was young, back to before I could speak. I felt exactly like it—like I couldn’t speak.

The bathroom is tight. Tiles crooked, dirty, clogged sinks, no stalls. The Persian blue neon and UV eat through the air, making the vein pattern on my arms mix in with the rest of my skin.

The door behind me opens. I look up and see Jean’s glowing face in the reflection.

“You’re up in twenty,” he says.

Levi didn’t make fun of me. That’s the last thing he would want, and I know this, but…I’m an easy win. He expected better, I think, _more_; a challenge, at the very least. He cherry-picked someone far below his rank and pinned him to the ground. A Top Dog flourishes in the glory of eating those who are weaker, uneducated, inexperienced, ill. Of course that he would up his numbers with ease by just weeding the new ones out.

“You good?” Jean’s hand ghosts over my bare shoulder, carpet-burned and swelling in pain. “Not tapping out now, are you? It was a demo. The rest of them are not nearly this good.”

“That was completely out of my league.”

“That was a _demo.”_

_His face, his chest—the way his sweat shines on damaged skin. _“He did it like it was nothing.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that he knew your name and asked for _you_on the ring.” I know what Jean means by this. “Eren, if—“

“I already told you—we met out back. I think he was just trying to show me my place because I tried to chum with him.”

Jean shakes his head. “You know what the seniors are doing here. They’re here to recruit, and you signed up for this very reason. You are far better than I am. Get that fucking contract, man.”

“I don’t know if I’ll get a contract,” I say. “I lied about my age. I said I was eighteen. No one asked for an ID, so I stuck with it.”

“Damn. Fuck.”

“What are underage benefits?”

“Paid E.R,” Jean says.

“And?”

“Court immunity.”

I watch him pull out a pack of cigarettes, pop the cap open and slide one out. He tucks it between his lips. We make timid eye contact through the mirror reflection, and he offers me one as well. I don’t even get to choose—he stuffs it in my mouth. Staring straight at him, I watch Jean light up both at once.

The smoke hits the mirror and sneaks up the edges, crawling to the airshaft above us.

“I got so angry,” I say, stomach pressed against the sink. Saliva builds up around my teeth. “He said, self-defense for another day. I was so upset. It’s like he knows I get sacked after class.”

“Did you tell him anything about school?”

“No. Obviously.”

“Okay. So, what if he wants you on the team?”

“He doesn’t.” I wish he would.

If I manage to impress the crowd tonight, I can get the necessary recognition. A few more nights like this, pedaling my way up the hill, making the contacts, making the enemies, careful not to overdo or underdo it… That might just do the trick. And if Levi doesn’t react to the effort, I’m sure there is someone else who would crawl out of their skin to train me.

Problem is, I don’t want anyone else. I feel like, if I do this, it has to be him.

We smoke in silence—if you can call this silence—and I suddenly wish I never signed up. I think I’ve wished of it too many times for it to be healthy. Of course, if Jean would begin the brainwash session and tell me that this is for a good cause, for my well being, for whatever altruistic value we’ve put into the concept of fighting, I’d believe him for a second, but no longer than that.

Goosebumps come on and off like a kid flipping the light switch. I circle around the tight space, wishing Jean saw that I could use a hug, but we don’t touch each other, smoke the cigarettes up until they burn our fingers and drop them in the sink. We leave the bathroom when the bell rings, meaning a real fight has commenced—and it’s Levi’s, so it will remain just as preposterous as what he did to Rush and I. Why so sympathetic when it comes to teaching? It’s almost like he is overcompensating.

I don’t pay any attention to the people around me. I can’t watch Levi put his new opponent down in a lock either, because it just looks miserable. Because I looked just as miserable. Maybe I looked worse. The embarrassment and pain I felt is not something one would forget; I was so helpless that it’s hard to describe. And tapping out is horrible to the ego. I did struggle for as long as I could, but…it doesn’t work like that, like in the movies. And if this were a movie, I don’t think I play the leading role. I’m a puppy in this community full of war dogs. They’re all bad in the best way. I’m the worst in the worst way.

It’s seconds rather than minutes before I am asked to go on ring again. I receive several encouraging slaps on my back as I swim through the crowd. Two girls ruffle my messy, sweaty hair. I try to put on my most dazzling smiles to buy at least some part of the crowd that seems to root for me.

When my fingers meet the threaded ropes of the ring, my stomach twists. Touch and muscle memory works odd sometimes. While it seems valuable when I have to imitate things I’ve seen on TV, it’s a downfall at the little moments.

The referee announces my opponent, but I have already blanked out. I kneel down in the corner of the ring, shaking Jean’s stretched hand.

“Good luck!” He yells.

“Who’s up?”

He nods to my left, and I look over my shoulder. The guy on ring is a tall, pale boy with a crew cut, as skinny as could be, but he beats me in height by a good measure, and I don’t consider myself very short. He seems proud of the few dark hairs on his chest and the downside of his navel—he _must _be, though it is embarrassing—disappearing into his green gym shorts. Underneath them he has a pair of black leggings.

I look back at Jean. “Damn. Fuck.”

“He’s got no muscle,” Jean says. “Show me your hands, your bandages good? Let me see them.”

“I’m good.” I let him fix the fraying edges. “Listen, I’m going to…I’ll try to be friendly.”

“You are… Jesus, you have got to be kidding me.” His eyes widen. “Please.”

“Jean, this is vital.”

“I don’t think _this _is the guy you want on your pack. You really gonna go from Ares to that?”

“Don’t you see I have no choice?” I hiss.

“You can’t—“

The referee blows his whistle, cutting Jean off. It is stated that my contestant’s name is Jody K.

I shake my head and crack my neck. My last words are, “I need to survive down here.”

Standing on my feet, I turn around. My fingers slide over the rugged texture of the bands. This is my first public fight. This is my first time on ring without being an experiment. This is the first time that I am being cheered for—for being me.

I shake my head to regain focus on Jody. Adrenaline pumps into my body before anyone has even announced the fight, and I sink in my knees to take a solid stance. Fists raised—left guarding the face, right protecting the windpipes—arms close to my chest. The knee that I am sitting more in stings from my weight.

Jody seems relaxed. His unconcerned stance and weirdly turned-out forearms give away that he doesn’t exactly know how to use any of his body. But he’s looking at me like he’s going to win. I’m not saying he couldn’t, with the height advantage that he has—Jody just doesn’t know how many times I’ve taken a beating. I’ve never been the brains of any group. Not a tactical thinker, not…particularly bright. But when I see someone whose clear intent is to hurt me, I can calculate a move in a second.

The referee announces our fight by raising his hands. A sharp whistle follows.

I lunge out. This is the least tactical thing I could have done, but, after I’ve pounded the shit out of Jody, led only by instinct and anger and reflex—and a ting of vengeance for every lost fight in the past—I’ll start being a _bit _more tactical.

My forehead crashes straight against Jody’s diaphragm, distracting him from the left hook that follows to meet his flat stomach. I repeat the attack, switching my arms like a PS combo. Back, back, square, X.

Jody screams and blindly swings his arms. His left elbow hits my temple, which I hadn’t exactly calculated would happen. It sends radiant waves of pain through my head. The inertia of my attack had made us both stagger towards one side of the ring. _Cornered, _I think. The second I feel like I could end this fight within seconds, Jody grabs my jaw with one hand and _rips _me off him.

The motion shocks rather than surprises, because I hadn’t thought he would have the strength. I yelp, jump on one foot to avoid losing balance, but my back hits the foam-wrapped corner post anyway.

Jody’s fists are now lower, shielding just the stomach. Not to let my stare linger too much on his weak spot, I look back up _right in time _as he swings his arm at my face. I crouch, aim at his stomach once more to solidify my attention to his abdomen, make him think that this is where I would aim next, and jump to the side, escaping the corner. I know it hurts. He probably wants to hurl. I feel sorry for Jody, but more for myself.

I’ve been so caught up with the fight that I don’t even notice the crowd. They are all screaming my Levi-given name. This is not the name that I chose, but it feels remarkable. It feels true. I don’t belong to a breed. A purebred dog is less of health than a mutt. Mongrel. _Mongrel. _That’s so _stupid! _It brings a smile to my face. I pull my fists closer to my face, breathing in the sanitized smell of the binds around my knuckles. Now I get why Levi always grins on ring; this makes me ecstatic.

I haven’t landed a single kick thus far, but that’s because I don’t think my footwork is good enough. Despite that, currently, I own the situation, and it would be awful to screw my position over. Nose and forehead shining, Jody puffs short breaths, and his fists are low. I’m shorter, but I can do an overhand—all I _can _do is an overhand. I drop my hand in a loop motion over his defensive arm position, touching down on the sharp edge of his boney jaw. My fist retracts back to defense right away for no other reason than habit, because Jody has retreated.

I freeze, keeping my breath still, and watch him hold his jaw in place with both hands. I can’t tell if he wants to quit right away, or if the crowd’s “Mongrel” chant is too much to bear. I don’t hear a single “Jody K”.

Jody’s eyes flick to me. He’s angry. I can tell. With a loud roar and streaks of sweat running down his forehead, Jody charges against me. Legs light, I jump to the side, just barely dodging the swing of his left arm. Now inertia doesn’t work in his favor, and I dig an elbow in his back. It works just like I’ve seen it work on the Internet: he hunches to the side, shrinking in height, and I jump on his back, holding his head straight with one arm, securing his neck in a death grip with the other. My weight is too much for him, and Jody falls, bringing me down as well.

It doesn’t run as smoothly as I had imagined, but my lock closes his throat, and the tap is immediate.

Someone has tapped me. _Me._

I scramble to my feet, feeling everything in the world at once. Every drop of sweat from my hair, how my chest rises and falls, every smell in the room—I feel my blood pulse, I _hear _it.

I kneel down to offer my hand to Jody. This is the benign, humble thing that Levi did, and I want to make it a trademark of my own.

“The name’s Eren,” I say, feeling Jody’s large hand take mine. “This was great.”

“Jonathan.” He has a lisp. “You’re…good. It’s my first time. I have asthma.”

“Me too. First time, I mean.” I pull the heavy boy up. I feel extremely intimidated when he towers over me like that. “Sorry about the—“ I begin, but am interrupted by the screaming referee that lifts my relaxed arm up in the air. My eyes search for the bathroom I would rather be in right now, for Jean and his cigarettes and his small hoop earrings, for admiration, for the group of girls that ruffled my hair, for—

There he is.

He is in the further corner of the room. On a barstool. Arms crossed, like I had awfully offended him, tattoos full on display, hair flipped over to one side, curling around his jawline. He has the grin of a sly dog. “Was that the best you could do?” He seems to ask, jaw tilted just slightly upwards in superiority. “An overhand_? _A clumsy lock?”

_It’s not the best I can do, _I think, keeping the eye contact. _I can do so much more. _

Levi doesn’t look _completely _disappointed—or at all. So I grin back at him and pay attention to the crowd to avoid making it weird.

That _fucking _pride, though. Holy shit.

My second opponent in the lineup is a ginger from Ireland. Too young to have served, but his opening stance screams he’s been involved with the marines. Family members. Goes by the name Igor. Can’t stop shuffling; the Videogame Syndrome. Like Chun-Li with her little satin dress and hair buns. His hairy chest is scattered in freckles. Igor is packed. Short, but beefy arms, wide waist; he’s certainly trained and all, and might have had atrocious power to his punches—if it weren’t for the beer gut, and if only he’d managed to _land _one.

When the whistle makes the match undone, I don’t do anything and stand still, waiting for the specimen to make a move.

“Mongrel,” Igor spits with a thick Irish accent, curling his fists before his face. “I had to drown my dad’s pups when I was seven.”

I close my eyes. Levi could have given me any other name on the planet. I will now be burdened by every dog metaphor people can come up with.

My eyes shoot down. Igor has trained at some point in his life, because there is muscle definition—but not enough of it. He’s out of shape now, which gives me a large advantage.

I bite my lip. This should be quick.

I can tire him out with the shuffle at first. A few blind charges, nothing pressed; just feeling the waters. When I figure he only blocks the face because the abdomen isn’t a problem, I aim a low kick at the legs. At the sudden hit, distraught, Igor lunges to the side and crams his hook in my direction. He misses, to which I am given the opportunity to break his nose. I take it like a flower bouquet at the door.

So far, my opponents have been…awkward in their own bodies. They’re not real fighters, don’t seem to have trained like Jean and I have, but this doesn’t mean that I’m complaining. A fight is, pretty much, just a fight. It’s fair from every aspect.

After Jonathan, Levi looks content, but asks for more.

After Igor, he is leaning on one hand, intrigued, but there is _still something missing._

Henry is the one who does it. Henry buys me the ticket.

Yes, Henry is a psychopath.

He hurdles me over on my back, but I keep my legs tight around his neck; this move earns me four tight packs at the cheeks. My mouth bleeds hard; my teeth have cut up every inch of soft cheek tissue inside. I spit the pooling blood in his face, and, with a scream, throw my hips to the right, his head still between my legs. This earns me a sufficient position to crash my ass on his chest and pounce the shit out of his face, all covered in my blood and spit. I’d forgotten all about his legs—Henry kicks me in the back and I fly over his head; like when you press the front brakes on your bike and fly over the steer. 

It is exceptionally nasty, and the referee announces a break.

Henry and I split a tie in the end; even though I felt him tap, it went unnoticed. I had him in a knee lock within the first three minutes, but he _bit _my leg and I almost lost sense of what is right or wrong in the world. Getting bit is such an animalistic feeling. It is unmatched—I promise you.

Stepping off ring with a face covered in blood earns me the attention. I am too full of adrenaline to notice the pain that is definitely there.

Jean pulls me to the bathroom by my shorts. He rinses my face with cold water, washing away most of the blood. I watch him do it in the mirror as if I weren’t really there.

“Open your mouth,” Jean whispers.

I let my jaw fall.

He slides his fingers inside my mouth and pushes around.

“Mwahahr?” I muffle, almost gagging on his index.

“Your teeth,” Jean quickly says. “Remember that your mom paid a fortune for your braces. Oh, this one’s loose… Let me… _Fuck_—we need to get you a mouth guard.”

We head back out after smoking another cigarette. Walking through the crowd is radically different now; there is a literal shift in the atmosphere. My next fight is scheduled with a few others in-between, so I can walk around the hall, watch others get wrecked and talk to Jean about how a real fight feels. There are lots of other listeners as well—and I won’t lie, I love the attention.

Levi looks over once in a while, but his eyes are mostly on the ring. I find that…I find that impersonal. My naivety will get the best of me.

When the referee calls my name, the crowd goes obnoxiously loud. But when he announces the name of my opponent, I almost go deaf. I jump on ring just like I would step over a “Welcome Home” doormat and drop my car keys on the credenza. The homey feeling dissipates when I register the person in front of me.

I wouldn’t have fever-dreamed of this scenario.

“Holy shit,” I say.

Annie, the blonde girl from the first night. I feel cornered, and it’s not because this is my first time fighting a girl. It’s because I hear the crowd. The better you are, the louder your audience. The referee blows his whistle, but neither of us take a stance.

She is wearing a white sports bra and snug navy shorts that sit tight around her waistline. Her hair is pulled in a tight pony. Annie has large, piercing eyes and a distinctive outlandish look. Her body is toned. There is not a single soft curve. This is not how I remember her; she was just this…little girl in a big hoodie.

“Happy gone birthday, you _freak!” _Annie cheers. “Damn, isn’t this wild?”

I confirm with a nod. “I would lie if I said I expected this to happen.”

“You know—me neither.” She stretches a friendly hand.

I comply, stretching my arm out to greet her as well.

We don’t even make contact.

I barely manage to notice her gloved arm flash and hit me straight in the pipes before I am down on my back, completely breathless. Within a few seconds, I receive two hard kicks in the ribs. My insides convulse in agony. Physically, I don’t make a sound. And she doesn’t like that, she _wants _the sound. Annie digs a sharp heel into the soft underside of my ribcage. I roll to the side, screaming in pain, but manage to kick her back in the stomach. It gives me enough time to get up.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I choke out at her.

“Growing your skin!” Annie screams from the other side of the ring, closing in to me like a lions to some injured animal. I notice her palm at her stomach—so my kick did hurt. “Don’t trust anyone. Get used to this. The sooner, the better.”

Without much thought, I send a blind hook under, hoping it might get me out of this situation. With a quick motion, she grabs my wrists with her opposites and pulls me close to her, making me lose balance; making _her _the only balance I have. I try twisting out of her grip and feel my physical advantage creep in. Her eyes flash panic, but it only lasts a few seconds—she wraps her leg around mine and pushes off the ground with the other. I lose balance.

The moment my back hits the ground, I lose all air in my lungs. I glare up at her, hissing through my teeth, trying to breathe as she pushes all her weight onto my chest. My legs begin to go numb.

Annie _smiles. _Something about it creeps me out, because there is no emotion in her eyes, but the mouth tells a different story. The unsettling feeling weakens my grip. That seems to be all she needs. With a swift flick, she twists my arm in a harsh angle, making me scream in pain. My shoulder area snaps.

The pain is agonising. She has me down. But Annie is not done. She is like one of those blood nymphs; she will never have enough.


	4. The Purebred Pariah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, will minimally fix it up with time, but here you go, have some hot hot quarantine content!!!! :-)
> 
> [@gazastripping](https://gazastripping.tumblr.com) on tumblr and [@batorija](https://instagram.com/batorija) on ig + the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1UTX7AEIz4vkjOmey16ugx?si=zz6hQpPxTOizH75GymTyfQ) ova hiya

** LEVI **

The girl from earlier won the second she was announced. Athena has great power, and she knows how to exploit it. There aren’t many women in the community, but the ones who have clawed their way through the scum of men have earned their immobilizing immunity.

Despite his billowing downfall, there is something utterly raw about Eren. He jumped on ring cocky from the rush of adrenaline, safe, because the crowd had rooted for him. He never thought of the rest of the equation, not once did he consider the “X” factor that was there from the start: loss. The problem with winning is that you get used to it. We know this. Everyone knows this. So when you go back, you go as hard as you can. The fall is greater when you fall from high up—so do everything not to. It will hurt.

From my quiet questions emerges the loud one: is Eren any good? The potential is undeniable, but he is not ready for someone like Athena; she has too much experience, poise, confidence. Eren is a nobody entering the arena for the first time, blown away by little things, sent flying down to hell because of it. So when his shoulder snaps, I straighten as if my bar stool had suddenly stopped being comfortable. My back doesn’t hurt anymore, but it feels as though I received the hit. I am careful not to lose sight of the two figures.

“You…like this one, don’t you? You’ve been watching him for a while.”

“He’s on the ring,” I blandly reply. The way Han smiles at my unresponsive face is all it takes to irritate. “That’s where I’m supposed to be looking.”

“I get it, I get it—he’s pretty…” _Pretty—what? _“A little young,” Han quickly adds, “but I can deal with it.”

“Just stop with the bullshit. People are into him. Look at his friend down there; he’s losing his mind.”

The mention of Eren’s friend makes Han’s brow shoot into her bangs, and I figure there are things I must have been the only one to notice. Maybe I _have _been looking at him too much. Not that I can look away now, with this entire power shift that has ensued. I _want _to, to keep the winner Eren embedded in my memory, but still follow what is happening.

Under the dim lights, covered in glossy sweat, the two of them don’t even fight for the upper hand. Eren never tasted the upper hand this round. Athena sees too much. It allows her to constantly be one step ahead.

I hope he’s not a quitter. One of those who go in full-force and then retreat. Not that he shows any trace of it in the way that he acts, but he has every good reason to. Something about the girl troubles Eren; that’s why the following hits hurt more than they were ever supposed to. It feels as if he is scared out of his mind because of their huge contrast in power. It almost bothers me to watch this, just like it bothered me to have to put him down and force to abandon; just like it bothered me to leave without promising him what he wanted: help.

Eren has an unreasonably disproportionate amount of pride and it’s not letting him back off. Sure—I guess I would have done the same. But if he really has trouble outside this ring, self-defense can’t help him. Time can. Change of environment can. Peaceful treaties are for the naïve ones, and mobbing doesn’t end with a flower pact.

The crowd goes wild, cheering for the bloody action that is served to them in the form of a dogfight, and although they do seem to love Athena, it looks like they don’t want to—or can’t—make up their beehive mind. They cheer for the fight itself rather than one participant.

“That looks bad,” Han comments as Eren holds his shoulder, finally set free by Athena. I suspect a hint of compassion from her. “Should we…”

“No.”

“He’s hurt.”

“Yes,” I say. “I know.”

They dance around each other, but Eren is not about to go for it—and if she did, he would feel it in his bones. With each hit, I straighten, ill at ease with the way they land: just about perfectly.

Erwin looks at us. “Listen, the pain’s excruciating. This is a beginner night.”

“Erwin,” I warn.

“What? You want E.R.? Han’s gonna need a new location.”

“Since when do we intervene?” I ask, turning on the bar stool. “Han, you wanna play god? Nobody is giving people second chances. We have no qualms here. We never intervene.”

Hanji lifts a finger. “Did, once. In 2015. But the kid’s still in a coma.”

“…burying your son or having to endure him being in a coma,” Erwin silently says. “Not too bright for either side.”

“Everybody knows of the consequences,” I say. “This is exactly what they signed up for.”

“Lee, just because they have been given the rundown does not mean they have fully embraced the concept of death. These are teenagers.”

“And you are giving them the platform, Han.” I turn back to face the ring. “So make your mind up.”

If Eren gets E.R., it means he won’t return. That doesn’t please me, given that, for some reason, I want to see him on ring much more.

I imagine every scenario of how I could make the fight stop, but there is the deeply fascinating beauty in the way that he handles pain: quite badly, and he cries, and he becomes frustrated and easily overwhelmed, but he doesn’t lose sight of his surroundings, doesn’t let it get the best of him, he never even prepares himself to tap.

Tapping would save him a lot of pain. Everyone in the room knows this, and everyone knows his fight is over. He won’t win. He is no match to Athena. But it does give him merit, and I think that’s what the crowd senses—the animosity in his stubbornness is the only reason why he’s still standing on the ring.

I remember him underneath me, fighting to win, slowly drifting off towards unconsciousness. He took the risk with me. He’ll take it again with her. He will take it with whoever the fuck is trying to kill him.

Athena approaches far too swiftly for his new grounds, shuffling on her feet by her perfected standards. Eren panics, throwing a jab that doesn’t land right. The mistake costs him a good cuff in the stomach and he bends over in pain. With each hit, he struggles to find a reason not to tap.

Athena throws a relatively soft hook that could have hurt a lot more if she had decided for the better of it. She is being gentle on purpose, maybe to see if he could get the upper hand. She’s just like me—curious. She sees it as a game. But it’s clear he won’t throw her off the high ground, and it’s a known truth that she has already won.

When Eren fights to keep his balance through the pain, he thinks it would be a subtle tactic to aim for a low hit to the ribs. But before he manages to charge, she has already seen it coming and grabs his arm before twisting it out. He cries out in pain, and I grunt; I was rooting for the sneak hit. Eren remains fierce as Athena pulls him in a standing chokehold. If he knows basic self-defense, he has a chance; if he doesn’t, he won’t drop her grip even with great luck. Besides, I’m sure she has prepared for this; she certainly knows how to lock these out as well.

She is very fucking good.

Eren is great only in the sense that he is suicidal. His light eyes are dark and cold, and pain is breaking his face apart. He looks insane. There is blood coming out of his mouth; and, yes, it has its charm.

“Poor boy, he’s only adding damage to the list,” Han whispers. “Fuck, why aren’t they stopping the fight?”

“…because that’s not how it works.” My eyes are locked on the ring.

“They should.” She doesn’t glance my way, eyes also glued to the fight.

Eren fights to get out of her grasp, and she only pulls it firmer. His hands are clawing desperately at Athena’s locked arm—he looks helpless and horrified.

I wish he hadn’t had to fight her. Not yet.

Something snaps. Everything stills, the crowd silences—Eren doesn’t move anymore, but he is conscious, eyes wide, filled with clarity. He seems to have stopped panicking and, despite the pain, begun to breathe right. I see the inner workings of his mind as he thinks of an escape, one that, maybe, could work with her.

He arches his back, shrinking his own height. Fuck, _fuck_—the risk of this maneuver is to choke himself to death if he doesn’t—_yes, _he sends his arm backwards and wraps it around Athena’s neck from behind. She is smaller, so despite the raw power she has in the arms, the physical mass of her body is still considerably less than Eren’s. He forces Athena’s head down, second by second.

The mess is hard to look at. Eren is in horrible pain, and Athena is set in a very uncomfortable position. Eventually, it makes her back off, letting Eren go with it. He hadn’t managed to reverse the lock, but he did manage to _force _her to let go, which is a turnaround I hadn’t expected. The victory is still unlikely. This just made the fight last longer by a minute.

Who cares. He is the hero of the day, bloodstained and weary, shakily standing on his bare feet. People eat this shit up, even if you lose. Eren is, pitifully, the crowd’s favorite, because he is the symbol of hope.

He stands tall when Athena sends a solid uppercut his way, stands tall when she sends a left hook, and a right hook, and another left, when she twists her hips and sends her leg flying to execute a perfectly landed kick, when his head flies backwards and follows the direction of her foot.

When he falls to the ground, he stands tall no more. It’s almost as if the crowd gasps, but they scream; some in fear, some rooting for the blonde warrior. Everyone’s arms are raised in the air in sign of victory.

Eren isn’t getting up.

He is coughing blood and spit is dripping down his chin, he is blinking too slowly for it to be fine in a medical checkup. However, he is breathing. Athena kneels down and locks his right thigh between hers, crossing her ankles on his bruised stomach, and pulls on his leg in a way that goes against its natural bend.

The angle hurts. Eren hits his head against the ground as he screams. It isn’t unnecessary pain, she is _forcing _him to tap. Why doesn’t he listen?

There is a part of forced submission that plays into every fight, and it has everything to do with mutual respect. Eren is too bigheaded for his own good, so Athena is going to make him bow.

And he does. Slowly, at first, as if there was still a chance he could win; then firmly, urged by the pain, shaken by the vivid despair of public defeat, Eren taps out.

He hasn’t lost yet. He will feel the taste of it, and he will hate it. He will hate tomorrow morning and the following weeks of recovery. Eventually, tonight will stop leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, because no defeat is ever wasted, it’s an experience, it’s a memory, and it’s a mistake. It will allow him to improve. Waking up perfect doesn’t give anything to bite, anything to rebuild your own perfection on.

Eren won’t get it right away. He will hate himself before hates the entire world. He might struggle to show his face down here again, but it is a necessary step that all of us have gone through. No one has been an exception. Fighting people stronger than us is what makes us stronger in return.

The way he taps isn’t unnoticed. There is a strange form of muted respect in it, as if he were rather clapping against his thigh than giving the real signal of abandon. Athena smiles and lets go.

Eren’s face relaxes. One after another, his muscles let go as well. The referee joins Athena, and after the crowd gives her the earned cheer, she walks back to the unmoving body lying on ring. _I’m sorry it was you, _she must be thinking as she leans down to rub his sore, slick abs. He tries to look up at her face, but his eyelids drop almost right away. I’m not sure who, out of us both, feels more relieved that he is done for the night.

Athena offers her whole arm instead of just the palm. Eren bites his lip and wraps his own around hers. By sheer force, slowly, Athena pulls him up on his feet. Eren can barely stand. He is in a bad state; blood is smeared messily around his mouth, sweat has glazed his entire body. I…hope he lives alone.

I watch with the softest of frowns as Athena slaps his ass, and they both share amused smiles. I hope he gets grounded; at least not seeing him around would work the guarantee that he is either dead or staying out of this shit.

Across the room, he catches my gaze, and I look away.

I will not give him the fucking satisfaction.

* * *

“I’m feeling rather…confident about this whole newbie thing. I feel like they’re getting better each time.”

I stay silent, hands in the pockets of my hoodie as we walk down the street. It’s the middle of the night. Everyone had left the bar for a better horizon, us included.

Han by my left side, a bag strapped across her chest, cleans her glasses as we walk. Erwin is at my right. He seems quiet. I am always okay with that, so I don’t comment on it.

They were talking about the tournament and who had the best chances to earn training from a senior. I wasn’t sure about that, because some of us are still deep in the competition, and as unofficial as it is, it still demands time, money and preparation. Nothing is left overlooked. In theory, at least.

I wasn’t going to teach anyone anything, because I had the kids at my gym already, and they were too much of a task to afford anything else. In advanced classes, ages climbed quickly from twenty to forty-five, but the majority of my clients were young wild kids searching for a way to escape violence.

…which is pretty funny to me. Picture that, escaping violence by mastering it; some hair of the dog shit. But most of them do leave my gym less angry. Good method to calm the youth, even if it requires them to inflict violence in return. They have the right to be angry about everything in the world.

“How was Levi’s public teaching debut?” Erwin asks, pulling me out of it.

“Levi experienced love at first sight,” Han informs. “Yanked up some cutie and put him down softer than you put a baby to bed.”

Erwin laughs. “Levi?”

I am boiling inside.

Hanji comes to embarrass me further. “Oh, yeah. He almost had a stroke during this guy’s last fight.” She turns to me while putting her glasses back on. “Why did you choose him for the demo? You knew he’d fail.”

“I’ve met him before.”

“My god.” She’s that kind of easy audience. “When?”

“The night Zeke handed my ass to me. He was there. I think it was his first time. The kid was in the backyard, so we talked a bit.”

“Oh, you were out smoking, weren’t you?” She asks.

“I was.”

Han hates me smoking. She has tried to hook me up with vape pens and barely credible electronic cigarettes, but fails to recognize the grainy, dirty, heavy bliss of a post or pre-fight cigarette and how it eats into you.

She looks back straight. I feel Erwin’s warm gaze. I feel like I am young again, dragging my drunk, angry ass down the street while Hanji explains international bioweapons to me, thinking that the friendship I had just begun with Erwin will mean nothing to me, because he is just one of the “good guys”, the righteous kind, degree in psychology, going into the military to make everyone else a good guy like him.

“So…what did you two talk about? Please tell me he’s a psycho.” Han smiles to herself, pleased with the imaginary scenario. “I wouldn’t doubt it one second, seeing all that shit on ring.”

“He just… He seemed very informed on what a street fight is. I hope he didn’t suffer from brain damage, because he is stacked on Intel. Where are we going tonight?”

“My place?” Erwin suggests.

Han replies something I don’t catch, because I am already drifting away from the conversation.

I wonder where Eren is right now. Home? His friend’s place? He must feel lost, helpless, eager for validation, for company, for sleep. I’m almost sure his respect for me has dropped like degrees on a summer night. Not to mention the demo.

Maybe I should have chosen someone else.

** EREN **

“Two, please.”

I would throw up if I could.

The bus driver eyes us both like something out of this world, then prints the tickets.

“You were out cold for a good fifteen minutes,” Jean says, folding the tickets and pushing them in the back pocket of his jeans. “Henry gave me fifty bucks to get you home and said I should get that 911 call ready.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you should be,” Jean says this as he pays for the bus with a fifty dollar bill, having me hunched over at his side for balance, chest bare, blood splattered down like spilt ink on parchment paper; most of it smeared all over my face.

My expression in the reflection of the bus window—dead cold, almost that of a plane crash survivor who thinks he’s seen it all, but really, he hasn’t even died yet.

“I can’t go home looking like this,” I say.

I can’t go home even after a long shower; even if I wash the blood off and pick the scabs from my eyebrow and nostrils, I’d still have an inconvenient amount of bruises to cover. They are only going to show up later today. I’m not sure I can wear a sweater and button-up to hide most of it.

Can’t say what hurts more—the ribs, the face, my knuckles, stomach, knees, pride, every organ. Over pride, the ribs sting like hell, so I have to go with those.

“You did _so good _until… It’s alright, though… Not your fault. Not your fault. Hey, stay with me.”

Jean’s soothing voice next to my ear helps me ease in his hold. I feel him trying to scoot me further inside the bus, both hands firm on either my hips, shoulders, or lightly gripping at my waist. Any pressure on my ribcage makes me suck an incomplete breath.

With Jean taking lead, my legs do what they are told. Baby steps, baby steps… My fingers dig in his flannel shirt. For the first time in forever, flannel against my fingers doesn’t cause immediate distress to my gut and nervous system. But that’s because the distress is already there.

“I snooped some insight at the bar,” Jean continues. He guides me to a seat by the window and takes the one next to it. My arm is still around his shoulders, and my forehead happily meets the cold, dewy window. “She’s trained. Her dad’s some kind of—you okay? Feel dizzy?”

I shake my head. The movement makes me sick. My eyelids are heavy. With vast, unaware movements, I roll my head back in my shoulders—and my eyes in my sockets along with it.

“Eren?” He sounds panicked. “Eren, stay awake. Stay here. Look at me.”

Expression jumping through several levels of pain and apathy, I turn my head to look at Jean. He is inches apart, eyes wide at the sight of my demolished face. Without saying a word, he slips his hand down his pocket and pulls out a bunch of bloody tissues.

For several obvious reasons, I don’t care if I look like shit—I only wish the pain would end. For the first time, this isn’t just a crazy thrill; this is dull, consistent, hot pain that I want to shake off and never experience again. I am positive that this is not the last time I think about it this way, which makes it even worse. But right now, right as I endure the peak of it, I can swear to myself that I will never step foot on that ring again.

My head falls back against the cushioned seat. Jean spits on the tissues a few times, then starts wiping at my chin and forehead.

“Your nose keeps bleeding…” He says after a while of holding the tissues under my nose. They smell like tobacco. “From now on there _is _limit for how long you should last on ring before you tap, okay?”

“I didn’t want to lose,” I whisper.

“Next time this happens, you could _die_. Your street credit won’t matter when you’re dead.”

“Street cred never dies.”

I wince when he presses one of my nostrils close to clean the other. “Everyone handles defeat differently,” Jean silently says. I watch his brows curve in anxiety. “But you’ve got to understand there will be serious organ damage if you keep this up. This time you’ll just head to the hospital, and that’s if you’re lucky. God, I shouldn’t have brought you there. I shouldn’t have let you sign up.”

“I don’t need parenting. It was my decision.”

“I’m _worried_. I thought you were dead when people screamed you weren’t moving. The first thing I thought of was, how the hell am I gonna tell his mom?”

To avoid showing that I care, I turn my head towards the window and close my eyes. “I won’t go to the hospital. This could affect a lot of fighters—and I’ve got school tomorrow. Talk about something else.”

Jean sighs. “Someone said you fight mechanically. That you have no sense of backing out of a fight. Or death.”

Granted, it has been pointed out on a number of occasions that my reaction to combat differs from that of normal people. It’s a rare trait—not being afraid of a fight, of death, of any outcome. But it’s not always a good thing. Fear exists for us to maintain a prolonged life. Not being afraid of danger doesn’t change the fact that danger is still _danger_.

I continue clenching my fists to keep myself aware of my surroundings and not fall asleep. I want to stay sane at least until I can crash at Jean’s. Take a shower, sleep the night out, go to school. I can cut class if I feel really bad.

The shame in losing a fight has less to do with the beating itself than it does with someone imposing their will on the opponent. People don’t like being dominated if it’s not sexual. That doesn’t mean they aren’t—but we just don’t like it. We don’t like showing physical or emotional weakness. In the basement, I saw a lot of people surrender way before getting themselves torn apart. Some backed out upon _seeing _their contestant. What is the point of a fight if you don’t test your limit?

I couldn’t distinguish several emotions on ring. I couldn’t pick up where anger starts, fear ends, and feral impulse glows in the distance. This is what I lack: control. This was what I greatly feared and anticipated being schooled out of, and the perfect teacher for control sat at the bar, watched and analyzed my every move the entire evening.

There is a hot little drop of blood running down the tip of my nose. Jean quickly stuffs the tissue against it.

“Thanks,” I say.

The bus is as empty as my head. Just a terrified driver, the odd-scented, synthetic, bolstered seats, and us.

It slowly occurs to me that the daze I’ve been feeling ever since I got off ring isn’t the aftermath of loss. I have still not wrapped my head over the fact that I won two and a half fights, which, for someone’s debut, is grand as fuck, meaning this daze is positive and that I should cling to it.

By the time we arrive, my pain has gotten insufferable and I am on the verge of crying. No trace of winner afterglow, just an ache all over. We get inside the apartment. Marco has already left for work and won’t be home until the afternoon, meaning there is no one to bother and no one to cook for us. Jean is hungry. I’m not.

Continuously wiping at my nose, I pull the tied hoodie off my shoulders, toss my phone and wallet on the credenza, and slowly stagger to the bathroom, leaning against every wall on the way. Rolling around the doorframe, I press my shoulder against the cold bathroom tiles.

“Jean?” I call, feeling extortion sweat build up.

He drops something and clears his throat. “Yeah?”

This is going to be awful, but it’s not my primary concern. “Can you help?”

Quick footsteps close in. Jean swims into view. I mouth “thanks” as he runs the water.

I don’t have much clothes to take off—just the shorts and boxers, but as crouching makes me dizzy I have to lean back on the counter and let Jean do it. The view must be worth a fortune.

It isn’t awkward. Just…not what usually happens. And the bathroom is so filigree white and over lit that it worsens the whole scene. I step out my shorts and try standing straight again. Jean slowly walks me over to the shower, and, before letting me step in, checks if the water is warm enough.

The pain peaks when steaming water hits my skin, but the downpour is very blissful, obviously. I watch red water dribble down my legs with piqued interest. What surprises me is that Jean takes off his flannel and folds his pants up to his knees. He steps in the shower with me, mostly avoiding the water, but not shying from it, and directs me to turn around.

Letting him wash me feels devastating. I could’ve done it myself, teeth clenched. I mean, I _guess_. But it makes me go rubbery just to think how worried he is—him, _Jean_, of all people, _worried_. He doesn’t even care about his grades. He hasn’t talked to his parents for, like, four months, probably. Jean’s a slum dog in this lifetime, and I don’t mean it in that fun guy way. So to see him act like this… It’s not honor I feel.

He makes me turn back around. I want to cough, but something tells me I might lose my lungs if I do.

Shampooing my hair, Jean looks me straight in the eye. “We won’t talk about this.”

“Embarrassed?” I ask, voice low, but sarcastic.

“No. It just shouldn’t have happened.”

“Henry came before Annie, so I’d say this was inevitable.”

“Does Annie try to make up for her wonderbread name with the title?”

“I met her on my birthday that one time.”

“Well, Henry didn’t get your ribs.”

“What, so now you’ve got x-ray vision?”

Jean sends a light open palm to my left side. I yelp in pain. Angry and blinded by the shampoo that got in my eyes, I cuss him out and let him wash the rest of my upper body.

When he gets to the last questionable bits of my abdomen, I awkwardly shift and say I will finish off on my own. He obliges, thank god. With slow, careful strokes I wash the rest of my body, and later spend ten minutes looking at myself, not too exceedingly wondering if Levi took any of this into account.

* * *

I am sitting outside the principal’s office. This isn’t the first time I’m here, but I feel like it might be the last.

Jean and I both slept on the couch in his living room. I woke up several times at night to drink water and sit by the toilet for a while. Periodical urges to vomit, but nothing came out. Jean said it’s just my gut not willing to settle. I stayed skeptical.

Even though the night’s sleep itself was awful, I found peace by five in the morning, having two hours to rest. I was forcefully woken up by my phone’s alarm buzzing on the dining table on the other side of the room, so getting up was inevitable, and I just had to get the gears moving. On a side note, physically getting up felt like I was actually crawling out of my grave.

I ate two patchy bananas for breakfast and drank a large cup of water. I borrowed Marco’s clothes that were a size too snug for me. I had a few messages from mom that I answered to on my way to school. During English Literature, I sneezed an entire Atlantic Ocean of blood over my textbook. My teacher sent me to the nurse’s office. The nurse, a lady in her fifties with dyed red hair, blotchy arms and overdrawn lips, said I’m in no condition to be at school. So I got sent upstairs, to the principal’s office. He winced upon seeing me and called my mom right away.

Now my mom’s in the office, and I am very grounded, I think.

Sitting here, in the sun-lit hallway, being gaped at by a pair of sixteen-year-old girls next to the information center, I can’t help myself but think how beautiful all of this is. Physically I don’t think I’ve ever been worse, but mentally I am simply thriving.

I look over at the girls, and they immediately look away.

I cover my face with my palm to shield my eyes from the sun that shines through the gaps of the blinds, and stare at the countless graduation pictures and honor student lists that I will never be a part of.

And I am okay with it.

For the first time in my life, I am okay with the fact that everything is horrible.

** LEVI **

Only 18 and over are accepted in advanced fighting class. If I were any more reasonable, I would limit it to 21—but I’m not.

The sun’s getting shy at this time of the day, and that’s when I feel the mood getting lighter. People are exhausted and overwhelmed, but they’re happy to reach the end of it; they step out of their schedules to take their time and talk a little. In my gym, the last class is always the most pleasant.

There is palpable difference between the classes I give to beginners and those I give to others. In fact, I teach beginners self-defense, or how to end a fight before it has picked up. The others, I teach how to do the most damage. It might be naïve of me, but I trust none of my students use it to do harm. I did, and I’m still putting the past behind me. It doesn’t go away; you just learn to accept what you’ve done and who you’ve been. It helps becoming a better man, if there’s such thing as a good man.

“Critical thinking. You are mopping over each other, and this is getting nowhere.” My voice isn’t harsh. I chew every word.

The two boys on the ground aren’t any older than twenty, and therefor I can witness how difficult it is to be patient. It’s hard as it is, but more so for a teenager. They are so used to want and desire and wish that things would come to them easily and right away. The new generation has a lot to learn, and many of them will simply never get there. And it’s not about the poise or confidence, either; too much is like terminal cancer, but not enough will get you killed as well. The only difference is the circumstance of your death.

The right amount of confidence. Swedes have a word for that; “just the right amount”. _Lagom. _What many good men lack is critical thinking, and that’s a pity, because they never get any better without it. You can try learning it, but not everyone is receptive to the teachings. Within the first two months of a beginner class, most quit either out of fear or frustration, or because I kick them out myself. It’s never healthy for someone who does not hold the capacity to force it.

I am still not sure if Eren has the qualities required to fight. If he will ever be patient, because he visibly isn’t just yet, and I think for long hours every day exactly how much time he would need before going out again. At times I wonder if he would make a fighter at all—without even saying “good”. If he feels like he belongs here, he either recognizes his strengths, or is, simply put, utterly insane. There is no middle-ground; not with him.

“Critical thinking,” I sternly repeat. They slow down with angered hisses, forcing themselves to weigh every move before trying to land it.

I want to teach people to think _as_they fight, not fight with only victory in mind. From patience blooms control.

There’s a soft breeze coming from the open windows, and I lose focus for a second, lulled by the contact of it.

The kid comfortably executing a ground chokehold is Mark. Mark is efficient, but—and trust me, it saddens me to say it—he is completely useless in trial. There is visible dullness in his punches. A few self-defense classes are great for people who don’t have outlined confidence, but in the long run, you _just _need to be better than that.

I can’t watch this any longer. “Okay, guys, that was fine. Give me submission.”

Mark has the upper hand in a second, practically waiting for me to ordain it.

I can’t watch this. He has no life in him.

“You done anytime soon?” Erwin’s voice calls from behind.

I turn with my upper body, arms crossed. Erwin’s relaxed silhouette leans against the doorframe. He has a beach bag thrown over his shoulder, and barely looks interested.

I check the time. “Wow. You’re scandalously late.”

“There was traffic. You don’t look any busier than ever.”

I examine him from head to toe. He is only wearing a thin, white button-down and vivid blue shorts made of synthetic fabric.

“Beach day?” I snort. “You look like you stepped out of Baywatch.”

“Do I comment on your lifestyle choices?” Erwin hits back.

“I truthfully envy your outfit.”

“Alright, fuck you.” He walks up to me. “Tough day?”

“Don’t know what to do with these two,” I lower my voice so that Mark and the other kid stay within their mutual hissing range. “This is the worst duet I have seen in my life, and they want to go in two weeks from now on. And I can’t just tell them I want them out. That brown kid is paying with a twist.”

“Another guy hoping you will instill some kind of war god essence into him?”

I nod and rub my face.

The class is cut short and I tidy up while Erwin waddles around, sliding his fingers over dusty surfaces. We are supposed to head in to Mike’s tattoo parlor. Last night on the phone, I persuaded Erwin for half an hour to get inked, and my persistence got the best of him.

I woke up with an erection this morning, which has not been a daily or even weekly occurrence the past six years, which I had…shamefully ignored the rest of the day, and now it is just a ghostly feeling; it was there—I think—but I’m not sure. To be completely honest, I forgot about our plans for the day, and the realization that I won’t be able to jerk it before I end my night irritates.

Being a lonely man like me is quite the experience. I am old enough for a family, and I am attractive enough for at least an on-off partner, but people are afraid. Before enrolling, I used to be good with that kind of stuff. Now I decline anything that comes my way and live in constant denial that anyone would want me to begin with, without even asking. I don’t need it. And if I had someone, I wouldn’t want to put them under the risk of just…learning I died on a night out.

Erwin and I watch the trainees carry around equipment and stuff it in plastic boxes.

“Made up your mind yet?” He asks. “The tattoo.”

“Nope,” I say.

He glances at my bare torso, down to my ribs, as if he was searching for a place to put it. “Well, I’m sure Mike will be inspired.”

Once the gym has cleared, I walk to my office and pick up my phone, wallet and glasses. A quick look over at the cigarettes on the top shelf of my cabinet. I close the door. When I walk out of the gym, stifling a t-shirt over my head, Erwin has already prepared to pull the garage door down.

“Drink up,” he says, throwing a beady bottle of Gatorade my way.

“You are just so used to the fact that I don’t have breakfast,” I comment, popping the cap. “Stop keeping me alive.”

“By seven you have already skipped three meals.”

“Not a gram of body mass moved. Save it, big guy.”

After all we’ve been through, I owe Erwin far too much to be able to pay the whole package back. Erwin’s okay with it, but I’m not, because I hate owing people shit.

I suggested to at least pay for his tattoo, but he told me to keep the money. I do want to pay somehow—not because I feel forced to, but because that is quite literally how I show that I care. So I settle on the thought that we will go out, maybe pick up food again, maybe just drive to the beach or head to his place and watch TV reruns while smoking on his floral couch and drinking beer.

He doesn’t care. He just wants my company, because he is here for the long run.

The radio in his car is always on this Rasta frequency and he never wants to change it, for some reason. I wildly suspect him to think it’s cool. I don’t judge; Erwin likes checkered socks, cargo shorts and 80’s dance moves. The guy is a war hero, so he can get away with it. He can snap a man’s neck barehanded, but that sure doesn’t change the fact that he is lame as fuck. He never really tries to be appealing. That is part of the appeal.

The parking before the tattoo parlor is almost empty.

“Busy day, huh?” I murmur.

It is sunny, definitely not too hot. We get out of Erwin’s scorching, chip-smelling garbage of a car and walk over to the parlor. Erwin pushes the door with his good shoulder, and I follow suit.

New girl at the counter. She looks up from her book and wordlessly points at Mike with her chin. I already like her.

At some point, we were practically living here. I was getting four pieces in one sweaty, awful fucking sitting, Erwin was making horrible Bloody Maries in the back, practically tube-feeding them to me while I swore to myself I would never get another tattoo in my life, just to come back a month later and swear the same.

It is pleasant to be here. They’ve got black velvet sofas and plants, meaty red and grey painted walls with baroque mirrors and gore paintings from some commissioned artists. Good concept! I would lose my mind if I were to work here every day. Red works me up like a bull.

Mike almost dies upon seeing Erwin. “Jesus Christ—what are you wearing? I wouldn’t recognize you on the street.”

“Erwin is having dad tryouts,” I say.

Mike laughs, and the girl behind the counter also smiles. “Been a while, Levi?” He offers me a hand.

I take it, smiling. “About a week.”

“Well, I guess the high society has no grasp on time.”

Erwin cackles.

I raise an unimpressed eyebrow. “High society?”

“Customer talk. I hear there’s foam at the shore again.”

Mike and I met over an exmilitary recovery program. Morning runs when Erwin couldn’t make it and therapy not exactly by choice. I try to be man about it; Mike doesn’t.

“My missus, here, wants a tattoo,” I say, motioning at Erwin.

“He practically held me at gunpoint,” Erwin corrects as he points an accusatory finger. He feels that Mike’s comment didn’t sit right, so they go ahead and talk business while I sort of zone out, leaning against the wall with my combat boot pressed flat on it.

I’m used to the pain. I grew fond of it over the years. That, and the world of body modification is like a parallel universe where only marginalized people meet, which would be right where I sit.

“How was your last fight?” I hear Mike ask as he gets up to grab transfer paper and pens. He doesn’t look at me, but Erwin never fights.

“Great.” It’s already getting blurry. “We have some great elements in the next generation, so I think it’s safe to assume we have our legacy assured.”

As I say this, I think of Athena, but I also think of Eren. I remember his bleeding face as he jumps off ring. Come back, or never show up again.

“I heard Zeke would take care of a few rookie competitions in the future.” His words don’t have a tone. He isn’t trying to verify a rumor—people in his line of business try not to pick sides. He looks like he is just stating the fact to see my reaction.

“Good for him,” I say. “Building fame.”

No, he’s always been there. We’ve rivaled for years. He has rarely taken me down, and that is something I’ve carefully tried to continue keeping up, which makes my recent failure even worse. I’m not Eren who is discovering a whole new world and the sheer violence of it. I have been through the thick of it.

I don’t…really want to talk about Eren. Not here, not with them, not like that. I want the boy in the backyard to remain my thing.

“I’m gonna have a dog,” I say out of the blue. “On my inner wrist.”

Mike looks at me, but doesn’t linger. Erwin checks his phone, his other arm imprisoned between Mike’s hands as he puts the stencil down.

I hate dogs. That’s what makes it interesting.

** EREN **

I still have the plastic hospital bracelet sealed around my left wrist. I tug on it while cycling past blinking convenience stores and abandoned hair salons. The streets are just as empty, so I don’t worry about running into anyone. It’s because it’s early.

This is the first time in a long time I’ve gone out solely for cardio. Every part of my body pleasantly stings. I let my bike go freewheel and listen to the sounds around me. The ticks of traffic lights as they change from color to color, to color. Distant E.R. sirens. I switch gear and pick up a tempo. My breath rises in small puffs up in the chilly, but sunny May morning, and I am filled with spiky determination.

It’s been roughly two weeks since my stay at the hospital. I have to drink supplements that vary in sizes and colors. The pain has gone mild, which is a blissful thing. A week into treatment Jean agreed on sparring again, but Marco found out I look the way I look, so now, under oath to Marco, we don’t act before I’ve cleared my meds. It’s probably only right and mindful to do it this way.

I lied at the hospital. It wasn’t for the other fighters as much as it was for me. The way my mom looked at me made me hate myself more than I did on the bus with Jean, bleeding from every fucking orifice—and so I broke out in tears, saying I got jumped again, and that I was too pussy to admit it. By literally _no _principle, everybody bought it. Mom even hugged me, which only made me cry more; I am touch starved.

I looked up Levi’s gym address last night and wrote it down on a piece of paper that is now stuffed in my back pocket. The gym opens at eight AM and closes at ten PM. I will be painfully on time.

I pass a six-story building and end up on a crossroad, having to bike facing the sun now. I squint and pull a weird face, and my hair keeps falling in front of my eyes. This doesn’t last long. I notice the surroundings familiar to me from Google Maps and pull the brakes. My phone says it’s 7:59.

My eyes catch the word “club” on a sign across the street. I jump off my bike and push it along. The building has a large garage door; seemingly the only form of entrance. There might be a back door on the other side. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have noticed this place if I didn’t know where to look.

I hold my breath and listen. Someone bangs on the door from the inside. I faintly hear keys jangle, and then the rough sound of one shoved inside a lock. When it finally hits me that I have come unprepared, I quickly lean against the wall and let my bike rest against my thigh—not to look entirely like I timed this perfectly.

The door goes up. With the corner of my eye, I see a figure step out. I recognize the camouflage print pants and a pair of untied boots.

Pretending to have just noticed him, I pull off the wall. “Oh, hey,” I say, burning over the fact that my voice cracked. “Good morning.”

Levi looks at me like I had just ruined his entire day.

“I don’t even want to hear it,” he says.

He is wearing the same thing he wore when I first saw him clothed: a wife beater and those ripped army pants. In the dusky morning light, as he is patting his hand down his thigh, I notice a dog tag flash.

I point up at the sign that reads “Carl’s Boxing Gym”.

Levi follows my finger and his face goes slack the second he skims the sign. “I am not taking in new students,” he says. “Especially if they’re the first fucking thing I see when I open.”

There is something cosmically funny about how little of a morning person he is. “I can pay.”

“I don’t need your mom’s money, kid.”

I pull the fold of betting cash from my pocket and hold it straight in front of me. “I earned this myself. Two weeks ago. Remember?”

We both know what I’m talking about. He leans to the side, shoulder meeting the cracked wall in a carelessly attractive manner, and tries desperately to determine whether he will give me the time of the day.

Eye contact is made. I hold his dismissive stare until he looks down first.

“You have…” Levi begins, swirling the coffee around. “Look. You went into one fight. You don’t know what you want. If you do, this is not it.”

I pull my hand back and stuff the money back into my pocket. “You don’t know what I want.”

He smirks, but it’s barely visible. “Cute. Shut the fuck up.”

I watch his dog tag swindle. “That yours?”

“My father voluntarily joined infantry during Vietnam.”

“Wouldn't that make your dad about—uh.” I look up. “Seventy-five years old?”

“Early sixties. He joined during the last couple years of ground troop involvement. Why are we talking about this?”

My fingers tighten around the steer of my bike. “I won’t join Foxtrot’s backed organization.”

“So join something else.”

“Well, I’m here, and you are telling me to fuck off,” I say.

“There’s another rookie night this Friday,” Levi says.

I hold my breath. Is this a challenge?

“Are you going?” I ask.

Levi crosses his arms. “Maybe,” he says, and drinks his coffee.

“Okay. Am _I _supposed to?”

The look he gives me is fiery. “This was an anonymous tip.” Then, he pulls off the wall. “It’s…easy to look sharp when you haven’t done any work. When I’d just started out, somebody told me that a knight in shining armor is a knight who’s never had his metal tested. I recently found out that Neo-Nazis wear that shit printed on a t-shirt. I am not saying I want you to get rusty first, this is—“

“Knights polish their armor before and after battle,” I cut him off. “It’s mettle. Wasn’t Athena enough for you?”

Levi turns around and walks back to the entrance of the gym.

“Levi!” I call after him.

“No,” he calls back—and is out of my sight.

I hopelessly sit back on my bike. My shoulders tense down. I didn’t notice I’m sweating.

He worded this so that I would never be able to say, “you made me do it”. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t say no. He left me with my own decision; I have to decide if I can be trained, like it’s up to myself.

But he didn’t say no. Levi compromised.


End file.
